Aftermath
by Philippe de la Matraque
Summary: They found Zussman just in time to save his life. They hope. Characters: Pvt. Robert Zussman, Cpl Ronald "Red" Daniels, Pvt. Stiles, Pvt. Aiello, and Sgt. Pierson. (Will reference real people only in that they were part of the real story that this game chose to include: Berga.)
1. Chapter One: Berga

Author's Note: I studied the Holocaust. I read about Berga. So when I saw it in Call of Duty: WWII I was very excited. That they put my favorite character in Berga was amazing and sad. I had to know more about his experiences there and after. So despite the fact that I have 3 other stories I could be-and probably should be-writing, I am writing this. Please note: Despite what some YouTube comments would have you believe, Berga really happened. Zussman is the only fictional part of that. Oh, and if you think it was Metz that Daniels killed to save Zussman: Erwin Metz, was tried and convicted of murdering one POW. The survivors of Berga were not even called on to testify. He was sentenced to death. But that was commuted and eventually, Metz was a free man after serving just nine years.

I hope in this story, to mesh the real story of the POWs of Berga with the fictional account from Call of Duty: WWII. I hate research but I've done a bit of it and will probably reference what I can of it near the end. For example, I had to find a camp for the platoon to find to see the concentration camp victims with stars on their clothes in the picture in the voice-over before the action starts in the Epilogue. That shortened the timeline to a very difficult part. The game put the finding of Zussman on April 4th. There was only one concentration camp liberated by the Americans by that time. Actually on that date. Bad Orb was liberated a day or two before. In Berga, the order to evacuate was given on the 4th but they didn't leave the camp until the 6th. I've chosen to use the real timeline there and in just how long Zussman was in Berga. The game would have you believe that selection happened around 3pm on December 27th (12 hours after the 0300 raid on the trucks.) It happened on February 8th. Again, I'm gonna go with real history. I had to know how they treated recently liberated victims of concentration camps. And how much an Army medic could be expected to know and do for such a victim. I hate research in general, but the internet has made all this so much easier now. Just Google the question. The answer will come. The best source I found was the diary of a medic POW who was sent to Berga; Anthony Acevedo. He donated his diary and other artifacts to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. And you can read it yourself, page by page, on their site. It's chilling. Especially the record of the deaths near the end.

If, in the course of this story, I give action and voice to some of those other POWs in Berga, such as Acevedo, I do it only to serve the story, not to try and portray any knowledge of their actual personalities or experiences beyond what Acevedo's diary could tell me. I do not mean any disrespect or wish to take anything away from actual history on that account. I majored in History. I only minored in Creative Writing, so you can kind of see where my loyalties lie. BTW: I interned at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum for my Masters Degree in Museum Studies.

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter One: Berga**

What remained of Private Robert Zussman hurt when he was thrown to the ground. He was aware enough to know what was coming, but barely. He heard the shot and then figured he was dead. He vaguely felt someone lift him slightly off the ground. "Is it over?" he said, barely above a whisper. "I must be dreaming." He dreamt his platoon was there.

"What'd they do?" Dream Daniels asked. Yes, it had to a dream. Daniels had died the day he was captured.

And Pierson wasn't yelling. So it had to be a dream. "We got left behind," he tells Dream Pierson. "I thought I might die alone out here."

Dream Daniels said, "Drink some," and a canteen was placed against his lips, a bit of water poured into his mouth. It felt real. Almost choked him. "Easy now."

"Alright, alright. Come on," Pierson said, and he felt like he was lifted up. "Let's get him outta here. Into the jeep. Gentle, gentle, gentle." Definitely a dream. And they were moving. He tried to move his legs, stay in step with them. A dream shouldn't be so hard. But he just couldn't manage it. He fell behind. Again. No, not again. He didn't fall behind. He was left on purpose. To be shot. Metz didn't like him.

_Maybe shouldn't have called him a piece of shit,_ he thought. Again. He'd thought that quite a bit over the last month and a half. The last of his strength left him. The dream started to go black. He was dead after all.

* * *

"Let's get him down," Pierson said urgently. "There by that tree."

Daniels nodded and moved toward the tree. He started to go down first, and pulled Zussman's body down to him. Pierson helped to prop the unconscious man against his chest. It was so easy. He had lost so much weight. What had they done? There was a Geneva Convention that was supposed to keep something like this from happening.

Two days earlier they had found Ohrdruff. Oh, they weren't the first. It was just the first camp they found. It had been liberated earlier in the day. It had shocked them all. Daniels wouldn't have imagined that even in a horror story. Piles of emaciated bodies in buildings, outside, everywhere. Walking skeletons of people with sunken eyes. All those reports, that they thought was propaganda, were proven true. The Nazis had committed horrible atrocities to the people of Europe, especially Jewish people. Ohrdruff wasn't the kind of camp they were looking for. But they were pointed toward a real POW camp in Bad Orb. Stalag IX-B.

That was where they found their first real clue as to where Zussman was. His dog tags. The liberated POWs had filled them in on a strange selection that had taken place in February. The Germans started asking for Jewish prisoners. Most of the Americans didn't like that idea and resisted. Some of the Jewish prisoners 'lost' their tags so they couldn't be identified by that letter H on them. Still some were sorted out by their names. The Germans set an ultimatum. The Jews had to be identified the next day or they and anyone hiding them would be punished. The prisoner leadership had advised everyone not to turn themselves in. One hundred and fifty did. The Nazis lined up some likely subjects anyway. An SS sergeant came and started saying he wanted 'die Juden.' He pointed a pistol at one of them. When the soldier didn't answer, the sergeant shot him in the head. Zussman was standing next to that man. He'd dropped his tags. Others followed. He started speaking in German. The prisoners knew enough to know what '_scheiße_' meant by now. The German didn't seem too insulted in being called a piece of shit. He seemed more content that Zuss spoke good German. He asked for 'die Juden' again. Zuss said what some thought was the equivalent of 'fuck you' but they couldn't be sure. The gun was put to his forehead.

He said, "We're Americans. Period." The sergeant pistol-whipped him and kicked him twice for good measure, then ordered all on the square into the waiting cattle cars. At first the other prisoners didn't know where those three hundred and fifty men were taken. They asked, but the Germans wouldn't tell them. Little by little they learned though. Because sometimes those guards would threaten them with being sent to Berga.

Berga. Three hours east. Quaint little village, horrible little concentration camp pretending to be a Stalag. The stench was terrible, nearly as bad as Ohrdruff. Especially in the barracks. The bodies there looked no different except they had American uniforms on. "These were our guys," Stiles had said. They were and they were reduced to extremely thin, lifeless corpses. There were more outside. Hung up with their arms behind their backs so their shoulders were nearly dislocated. Piled in the corner. Daniels had hoped he would find Zuss, but not see his face one of those corpses.

The tracks led into the woods and when he got the clearing, a prisoner was shot in the back. Another thrown to the ground and that German was going to shoot. So Daniels took the shot. The one thrown down had Zuss's face, thinner, gaunt even, but it was him. He was alive!

Now Daniels wished they'd taken a bit more time in Ohrdruff. What had the doctors done for those poor walking skeletons? He'd heard the stories that a few soldiers had tried to feed people, only to have those people pass out and die. What cruelty was it that starving people would die if they ate? Was Zuss so far gone? He weighed so little against his chest.

Zuss was mumbling, so quiet Daniels couldn't make out what he was saying. He offered more water. But Zussman choked a bit just after a sip. The mumbling stopped. Daniels got scared but his hand on Zuss's chest went up and down with the latter's shallow breaths. His chest felt warm to the touch and incredibly bony. He'd wasted away to almost nothing.

The others stood around them. Stiles stated the obvious. "He's gonna need a doctor. A hospital."

"We'll find him one," Aiello said. "We gotta help him ourselves until then. I could get the jeep and bring it here. Save him the steps."

"He's starved," Daniels said. His intuition warring with what he heard in Ohrdruff. "We should give him-"

Stiles cuts him off, "Gotta be careful. His stomach will have shrunk. He eats too much or the wrong thing and it kills him." Yeah, that was what he'd heard.

Pierson was thinking more clearly, "There was a platoon back at the camp entrance. Maybe they have a medic. They had a truck."

"I'm on it!" Aiello stated and he took off at a run.

"His breathing doesn't sound good," Stiles said. "Maybe I can find something in the camp that'll give us a clue what they did here."

Pierson looked down at them. "You got him?"

Daniels nodded.

"I'm going with Stiles. Keep your guard up. War's not over yet."

Daniels pulled out his pistol. He nodded again and Pierson took off after Stiles.

"I've got you, Zuss. You gotta hang on."

* * *

Stiles went into the Kommandant's office but Pierson went back to the burning pile of books and papers. If they were burning evidence, they wouldn't leave it in the office. A lot of papers were scattered around the flames, singed but not burnt. He sifted through them, stomping out some sparks here and there. It was then that he saw a map of some sort. It was just a section, but it seemed to show tunnels dug into a mountainside. Stiles joined him and they stomped out more flames and kept looking.

"Here!" Stiles held up a drawing. It was a schematic of an engine. Pierson found a list. Of people. Not by name. Just numbers of people, men, women, Jews. There were hundreds of workers. There was a list of rations. One hundred grams of bread for five men. He didn't have to understand German to get the gist of that. One per week. No wonder they starved. This was a labor camp alright. A slave labor camp, Nazi style. The POWs were just part of the slave workforce.

"We need to get back," he told Stiles.

"I think I understand," Stiles replied as they ran back to where they left Daniels and Zussman. The truck was already there. There was a medic kneeling by Zussman. "If they worked in the tunnels, digging them, with no masks..."

"My God!" the medic said as he went over to Daniels and Zussman. "They told me we might run into camps like this but when it looked deserted I thought maybe I got lucky. Not that I wanted them all dead. I just wasn't trained for this. Get your leg blown off, I got that. Take a knife to the gut, I'm your man. I don't see any bleeding wounds. I'm really good with bleeding wounds. Let's get him back to camp. We can get him cleaned up, take a better look, maybe get him to eat something."

"We have to be careful," Stiles repeated.

"Oh yeah, we definitely will have to be careful," the medic affirmed. "Let's get the stretcher."

"On it." Aiello left and returned quickly with the stretcher. Zuss was far too easy to transfer to the stretcher. He was limp and so awfully light.

"He's gotta be, what?" the medic said, "Ninety, ninety-five pounds?"

"How does a man loose half his weight in month and a half?" Aiello asked as he helped lift the stretcher from the ground.

"Easy," the medic said. "Just don't let him eat. At least not much. Work him too hard at the same time and you have a recipe for a long, painful death. My question is, why's he wearing one of our uniforms."

"He _is_ one of ours," Pierson said. "Specifically one of ours." He touched his insignia. "We lost him back in December. He and three hundred forty-nine other POWs were brought here from Stalag IX-B in Bad Orb back in February. The bigger question is where are the rest of them? There's maybe twenty dead in the camp there, four others back that way. Where are the others?"

* * *

Pierson told the others to wait outside as he helped the medic carry Zussman into the tent. They set the stretcher down on a cot and the medic brought over a lantern. "We gotta get these clothes off of him. There's a clean blanket over there." He indicated where with his head as he started cutting the coat off of Zussman. He seemed a bit surprised when he got down to the shirt. There were strips of cloth wrapped around his waist, one after another. Once Zussman's torso was clear, he pulled everything out from under him and dropped them on the ground. A cloud of dust wafted up and the medic sneezed. "That might explain the breathing."

"What explains all that bruising?" Pierson asked quietly. Zussman's entire torso below his sternum was splotchy and purple.

"Nazi bastards!" the medic said. "Bad enough they had to starve him, but they beat him as well."

"We think they had them digging tunnels in a mountain nearby," Pierson told him.

"Yeah I remember the other guy saying something about that." the medic replied. "That's the dust. If he's got that much in his clothes, he's got that much in lungs."

Pierson really wanted to hit someone but there were no Germans around.

"Get me some water," the medic said. "I want to clean him up a bit, check him over." He handed him a bucket.

Pierson nodded and left the tent. The others followed with questions but Pierson was too angry to answer. He walked up to one of the other soldiers and asked where he could get water. The soldier pointed him to a stream a few meters away. Stiles and Aiello hung back but Daniels followed up. "Is he?"

"He's as alive as we found him." Pierson filled the bucket with water and stood back up. "He's purple."

"Purple?"

"Bruises. They had to beat him constantly to look like that." Daniels walked back to the tent with him. Pierson let him carry the bucket inside.

* * *

Pierson was right. He was purple. From his chest down. There was a blanket covering the middle of Zussman, but the medic had all his clothes off. Zuss's legs looked like toothpicks with big, knobby knees. His arms were twigs, and his breaths came in soft wheezes.

The medic dipped a towel in the water and gently started washing some of the grime off Zuss's face, arms, and legs. He worked quickly though, then covered Zuss's legs and torso back up with the blanket.

"He's not bleeding," the medic said. "At least not externally. We need to get him to a hospital. But I want to try and get him eating some soup before that."

"Will he live?" Daniels asked.

The medic stood up and faced him. "In my opinion, he's camped solidly on death's doorstep. If I had other wounded, and had to triage, I'd have to let him go. But I don't have any so I'm gonna do my best. I can count five things working against him at this point. Any one of those five can tip him right over. Starvation, dehydration, pulmonary issues, exhaustion, and potential internal bleeding. And he's got a fever. Which means he's got something else to worry about. If you're the praying type, I'd get on that."

Daniels felt like he'd been punched in the gut himself. They'd found Zussman. But had it been just so he could die among friends? He nodded. He took the St. Michael medal out of his pocket and put it around Zussman's neck and then left the tent to tell the others. And to pray.

* * *

The medic was surprised to find his patient's eyes open. The guy had no dog tags. He didn't even know the soldier's name. "Hi," he said. "I'm Tom. Can you tell me your name?"

"Leave me," he said softly. His eyes were cloudy and unfocussed. "They'll shoot you, too."

"You're safe now," Tom told him. "No one's gonna shoot anyone. I'm gonna raise you up a little bit. I want you to eat some soup."

Andy returned from the cook with a bowl. "Watered down, like you asked. But still got plenty of chicken bits and some noodles."

"Thanks. I gotta think liquid and fairly bland is what he needs. Simple foods." He propped a couple pillows under the patient's head.

"Soup's not good," the man said. "Cats and rats. Bread cuts your mouth. Sawdust and sand and glass."

Tom thought that that would definitely lead to the emaciated state this former prisoner was in.

"This is good soup," he told the man. "Chicken. No cats, no rats."

"_Erschieß sie nicht_." The German was unexpected. But Tom understood something about shooting. "_Erschieß mich._ Daniels is dead. _Ich auch. Lass sie mit den anderen gehen._"

Daniels. Tom thought he saw that name on the corporal that brought the bucket in. He wasn't dead. Was it a different Daniels? He was getting nowhere with the patient but he had an idea. He stepped out of the tent and was not surprised to find all four of them waiting right there. Tom focused on the corporal. "Daniels."

"Yes."

"Unless he's talking about someone else, he thinks you're dead."

Daniels looked confused for a moment. Then it hit him. "Oh, no. He saw me get shot. From the truck after the wreck. I shot at the truck, but I got shot. He thinks I died."

"He's delirious," Tom told them. "He's talking like he's stuck in the camp or just before they shoot him. Maybe if you can convince him that you're not dead, he'll believe he's not dead and then maybe we can get some soup in him."

Daniels nodded. He followed Tom back into the tent. He sat down on the edge of the cot and took the patient's right hand in his left. "Zuss, it's me, Daniels."

Zuss weakly turned his head. "You're a dream. I saw you die."

"I didn't die, Zuss," Daniels said. He had a heavy Texan kind of accent. "I tried to get to you but I couldn't and they drove you away. Pierson came, and Stiles and Aiello. They carried me back. I was hurt, laid up for weeks. But I never forgot about you." He lifted Zuss's hand and set it against his own cheek.

Zuss's eyes seemed to focus on him. "You're real? I'm not dead?"

"I'm real and you're free," Daniels told him. "We found you. Pierson, Stiles, Aiello, they're just outside this tent. We all came to find you and we did. You're free."

Zuss let out a soft sob. But no tears. Too dehydrated for tears. They had to get this soup into him. "We need him to eat."

Daniels put Zuss's hand down and took off his helmet. "I know you're hungry," he told Zussman. "We have some soup for you."

"Good soup," Tom added. "Chicken."

Zuss turned his eyes to him. And Tom could tell he actually saw him this time. He took up the bowl and dipped the spoon in then held it to Zuss's lips. They parted and he let the soup pour in. Zuss swallowed it. So Tom continued. He almost made it to the last spoonful. What strength Zuss had had just melted away and his head lolled to the side, eyes closed. Daniels froze with a look of terror on his face. Tom reached for his neck. His pulse was there. His breaths were lightly wheezy but they were there, too. He removed the pillows and gently laid Zuss's head back on the stretcher.

"He's alive. He's unconscious. Let's get him to that hospital."

"They ate, they passed out, they died," Daniels said, staring intently at his friend. "Did we just kill him?"

"Who passed out and died?" Tom asked him.

"Ohrdruff, those poor people. Walking skeletons, starved people."

"The food was probably too rich," Tom explained. "This soup was watered down. It was mostly broth and water. Very simple. He's passed out. I think he's alright for now. I don't think the soup will kill him. All those other things will though, if we don't get him to a hospital."

Daniels took a breath then nodded. "Where?"

"Bad Orb."

He turned to look at Tom. "We came from Bad Orb."

"It was a POW camp. They had an infirmary. Army doctors moved in to treat the liberated POWs. It's his best chance."

Daniels nodded. So Tom tucked the blanket around Zuss's narrow legs and hips, and all the way to his chin. "Get his feet," he told the corporal.

They carried him back out of the tent and to the truck. "We're going back to Bad Orb," Daniels told the others. "They got an infirmary, with doctors."

"It'll be dark when we get there," the one with glasses said.

"So we'll wake them up," the tall, skinny one said. Heavy New York accent.

Tom went back to the tent and brought out a canteen and another towel. He handed them to Daniels. "He's got a fever. A little cool water on his head and neck. I hope he makes it." He took out a triage tag and started to write. "What's his name?"

The sergeant answered, "Private Robert Zussman."

Zuss was for short. He handed the finished tag to the guy with glasses, Stiles. "Give this to the doctor." Tom showed them where to check Zussman's pulse on his neck. "Listen for that wheezing. If he's wheezing he's breathing."

Daniel's nodded. Tom lifted the tailgate and latched it. Pierson, the sergeant, said, "Let's move."

"Thank you for your help," Stiles said as the truck pulled away.


	2. Chapter Two: Bad Orb

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Two: Bad Orb **

The sun was going down when they left Berga. Daniels looked back over the tailgate as the camp faded away. He hoped more troops would come soon and a proper accounting could be made of the bodies there. Each of those soldiers deserved a proper burial. He took the now warm towel from Zuss's neck and poured cool water on it again. He wrung it out and placed it on Zuss's forehead. He looked so small there on the stretcher, even bundled as he was in the blanket. But he was breathing. That was the important thing. He was alive. He was going to live. He had to.

It had turned dark an hour before they arrived at Bad Orb. The camp's external lights were up. The truck stopped abruptly. "The camp's locked up for the night. Sorry fellas."

Daniels heard the passenger door open. "On me!" Pierson ordered.

The tailgate went down. Pierson shined his flashlight on Zuss's face. The guard's eyes looked wide.

"Why isn't he at Ohrdruff. Why bring him here?"

"He wasn't at Ohrdruff. He's an American POW we liberated three hours east at Berga," Pierson told him. "And he really needs a doctor. Now!"

"Yes, sir." The guard hurried away and Pierson closed the tailgate again. The passenger door closed and the truck moved again. Daniels saw the gates closing behind the truck.

They passed through the former prisoner areas and went to the German side. The truck paused here and there for directions. It finally stopped and both the driver and passenger doors opened. Stiles reached out and dropped the tailgate. Daniels hopped out.

"The doctor's are asleep by now, Sergeant."

Stiles started pulling the stretcher out, and Daniels scurried to get the other end. They carried Zussman to where Pierson was staring down a captain.

"Wake one up." Pierson insisted.

The captain took one look at Zussman and ordered a nearby private to get one of the doctors up.

"American doctor," Pierson ordered. "No German doctor is to come within fifteen feet of this patient."

The captain looked tried. "They are serving our men with dignity."

"This patient is Jewish, and Germans put him in this state. No German doctors!"

A few minutes later, a tall man came out, pulling on his white lab coat over pajamas. "I'm Dr. Harris. What can I do for you?"

"Not me," Pierson said. "Private Zussman here is in desperate need of medical attention."

The doctor came over and Aiello used his light so the doctor could see Zuss. "Private? He looks like a concentration camp victim."

"He is, and he was an American POW," Aiello said. "Just like a bunch others we found dead in Berga."

"But the Geneva Conventions," the doctor tried.

"Were thoroughly stomped on in that camp," Pierson finished for him. "Help him."

Doctor Harris nodded. "Bring him in." He started in and Daniels followed. Stiles lifted the stretcher up so it would be stable as they went up the stairs.

They went into a dimly lit area with beds along one wall with big windows. Each bed had a patient on it, sleeping.

"In here," the doctor said, leading them to the right through another door. They were in an exam room. There was a table there, no beds. They lifted the stretcher and placed Zuss on the table.

The doctor flicked a switch and a bright light came on overhead.

The door opened behind them and a young women in a white dress entered. They must have woken her up, too. "She's American?" Pierson asked.

"From Philadelphia," she responded.

Pierson nodded. The doctor pointed to another door. "You four wait in there." Stiles handed him the triage notes from the medic and Daniels reluctantly left with the others. "If he's contagious," the doctor said, "you and he will have to be quarantined."

The nurse flipped the light on in the other room. There was a sofa and a couple of chairs. Then she returned to the exam room and shut the door. Daniels stared at that door. Zuss was in there all alone. He decided to pray some more.

* * *

There was a window in the room they were in as well, and Daniels noted the light coming in from there growing brighter. Stiles had fallen asleep. Aiello and Pierson were talking quietly about something. Finally the door to the exam room opened and Dr. Harris came through. Aiello kicked Stiles lightly to wake him up.

"I've heard of the camps," the doctor said, "but I've not been to any of them. I've sent word to Ohrdruff to see if they've come up with any strategies to help the survivors that could help Private Zussman. We haven't ruled out contagion yet so you'll be staying with us. His fever is low, so I'm not too worried about that. Yet. I've administered penicillin either way. I'm more concerned with malnutrition and possible internal bleeding. We've bathed him to get rid of the lice. If you've had close contact, some may have transferred to you. We've moved some things around to get a smaller quarantine ward set up with five beds. There are pajamas for you to change into. We'll have your clothes washed."

"Zuss is there?" Daniels asked.

"Yes," Dr. Harris replied. "We've got him on an IV and some oxygen to help him breathe. The note said something about dust in his lungs? What can you tell me?"

Stiles offered as much as he knew. "We don't know for certain but we think the prisoners were put to work digging tunnels in a mountain side. They weren't treated well so it's doubtful they had air masks. They had to breathe it."

"They? There are others?"

"Dead," Aiello said.

"Some dead," Pierson corrected. "We don't know where most of them are. The camp was deserted, burned."

"It's horrendous," the doctor said. "How many camps are we going to find like Ohrdruff and this Berga? How many thousands of people did these Nazis kill and enslave?"

"Considering the reports most of us thought were just propaganda," Stiles said, "it's not thousands. But millions."

Daniels felt sick. Millions of people slaughtered. It was staggering. Just because they were Jewish. Or communists or some other group the Nazis hated. Germany had been a civilized, European country. What had happened? How had it all gone wrong?

"Well," the doctor said. "If I have anything to say about it, Private Zussman will not be one of those millions."

Pierson nodded. "Let's go," he said, offering Daniels a hand to get up. "I'm good with that, doc. That's the only way I'm gonna get some sleep. I let him down before. I won't do it again." The nurse appeared and led them to their ward.

"I'm the one who let him down," Daniels said.

"No, you disobeyed a direct order and went after him," Pierson argued. "I just wish you'd stopped that damn truck."

"Me, too."

Zuss was lying asleep on the first bed. There was an IV in his right hand. He looked a little better already. A little bit of color had come back into his face. Must have been the fluids. The medic had said he was dehydrated, too. There was a mask over his mouth and nose attached to a hose. The oxygen. There was a chair beside the bed and Daniels headed for it. Stiles stopped him.

"I got a bit of a nap in there," he said. "I'll sit with him. You get some sleep."

Daniel wanted to argue but he yawned deeply instead. He nodded.

"Wake me when you get tired," Aiello called.

"Good plan," Pierson said. "We'll take shifts. I don't ever want him to wake up and not see one of our faces."

"Yes, sir," Daniels said. He changed into the pajamas on the bed closest to Zuss's. There was a bin in the corner of the room and he deposited his uniform there. He'd been sleeping on cots for so long the mattress felt luxurious by comparison. He was asleep in minutes.

* * *

Zussman became aware of light on his eyelids. He was late! They always started work at four in the morning. His breaths quickened and he snapped his eyes open. There was something on his face. He reached for it but there was something on his hand, too.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. You're okay. Just relax. That's helpin' ya breathe."

Zuss looked to his left. Aiello. He was out of uniform. He was in striped pajamas. Like the civilian prisoners. But they were clean pajamas. Zuss put out his left hand to touch this Aiello. To see if he was real.

Aiello took his hand. "You're in the infirmary. Doctors are lookin' after you now. You're gonna be fine. Just try and relax."

The hand felt real. His breath slowed and he looked around. It was a good sized room with no bunks. White walls, windows on one side. The sun was shining in. He became aware of a softness beneath him. There was a bed behind Aiello. A real bed. Mattresses.

"Where are we?" he breathed through the mask.

"We're in Bad Orb," Aiello told him, "but don't you worry. It was liberated a couple days ago."

It was starting to make sense but he felt dizzy still and couldn't put it all together. The room started spinning so he closed his eyes. "War over?"

"Not quite yet," Aiello said. "We're getting closer every day. But it's over for you. All you gotta worry about is getting better."

Memories flooded him. Acevedo wrapping his torso under his shirt in strips of blankets donated by the other prisoners. Just a little extra padding against the daily beating he was guaranteed to get. Small bits of food being put in his hands late at night. Food from the Red Cross packages the others got and that Metz would not let him have. He remembered Acevedo's face, then others. They were packed up, wrapped in blankets, turning sadly away from him and the others condemned to die. Metz ordering, "Warten Sie zehn Minuten und schießen Sie sie ab!" The last of his fellow prisoners fading into the distance. The shots. One, two, three, four. Five.

He opened his eyes, found Aiello again. "The others," he breathed. "Did you find them?"

Aiello looked down. "We found some. Dead in the camp. Where we found you."

"They were marched away," Zuss told him.

"Someone will find them," Aiello told him. "Are you hungry?" He let go of Zuss's hand and got up.

It took Zussman a minute to identify that deep pang in his stomach that was never satisfied since the train that left Bad Orb. In recognizing it again, it filled his entire torso, pushing through the pain of the bruises. Aiello came back with a bowl. A ceramic bowl. He set it on the chair, then helped Zussman raise himself a bit. Aiello propped him up with a pillow. Then he picked up the bowl with one hand and sat down. His other hand lifted the mask over Zussman's face and let it rest on his chest. It was harder to breathe, but he was focused on the bowl.

"Oatmeal, on the runny side," Aiello said.

Just sitting up left him so exhausted. He reached for the bowl but couldn't hold it.

"I gotch ya," Aiello said. He dipped a spoon in the oatmeal, and Zussman let him feed him bite after bite. Before Berga he might have felt embarrassed. Dignity had left him rather early on. It just felt so good to have something decent to swallow. It was the best oatmeal he thought he'd ever had. It probably wasn't, and he knew it, but it didn't matter. It had a pleasant flavor. That was a rare thing lately.

Still he was disappointed when the bites stopped and Aiello put the bowl down. He was still so hungry. Aiello left again and came back with a glass of water. A real glass with clean water. He put it to Zussman's mouth and Zuss managed to help himself drink some to wash down the oatmeal.

"There'll be more in a few hours," Aiello told him. "You gotta go slow after what you've been through."

He lifted Zussman's neck and pulled the extra pillow and helped him lay back down. Then he replaced the mask on Zussman's mouth and nose. Breathing got easier but he couldn't get a full breath without aggravating that tickle that lived in the back of his throat. He was tired, but he was free. No work in the tunnels. No beatings. Just food and water and a bed to lie in. Now, if he could just get a deep breath, it would be almost perfect. He closed his eyes again. Aiello patted his shoulder. "It's just gonna get better from here. Rest all you want." Zussman thought for a moment that Aiello had changed. Oh, he'd been nice enough to him in the months they fought together. Like well, this Jew was his friend. But this was over-the-top nice. Zussman liked that and he fell asleep.

* * *

In the chair beside him, Aiello crossed himself then rested his head on his entwined fingers, his elbows on his knees.

* * *

Daniels heard voices and woke up. He was still tired and he saw Aiello on the chair between his and Zussman's bed. He listened as they talked, though he couldn't quite hear what Zussman was saying. Then he watched as Aiello propped Zussman up and fed him. When he helped Zussman lie down again and started to pray, Daniels sat up to give him a break.

"I'm up," Pierson said, arriving at the foot of Daniels' bed. "My turn to sit with him. Go back to sleep. It was long night."

_Well, Paul,_ Daniels thought, taking out his notebook. _Who'd have thunk it, but I think our little squad has become a family._ Then he laid that aside and closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

* * *

Pierson watched Zussman sleep but his mind was on the hundreds of others who were no longer at the camp in Berga. Where had they gone? Zussman was the last person alive at that camp to have any clue, but he was so far gone when they found him. Was he aware enough then to know?

Zussman awoke a few hours later. The others were up, playing cards or reading books that had been provided to help pass the hours. Zussman seemed surprised to see Pierson sitting beside him. His eyes looked so big in his gaunt face. But he looked better than yesterday.

Zussman looked around as well as he could from his bed. Then his eyes returned to Pierson. "I'm sorry, Sergeant," he said quietly. His voice was still hoarse.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Pierson told him. He was puzzled. So much had been done to Zussman. What would possibly think he had to apologize for? "You didn't do any of this."

"If I'd been stronger," Zussman replied. Pierson could see the effort it had taken to push those words out.

Pierson touched his shoulder. "You are one of the strongest soldiers I've ever met. You survived hell."

"You guys saved me," Zussman responded. "I was dying. I lost my hope," he went on "a long time ago." He spoke in phrases, catching is breath between each phrase.

Pierson wanted to ask him about his time in the camp, but given the effort it took to say even one phrase, he decided that would have to wait. "Anybody would. I don't fault you for that. You shouldn't either. In fact, you are welcome to just rest, heal, and gain some weight."

* * *

Two days later and Zuss was still sleeping a lot and not able to even sit up on his own. The doctor had finally ruled out contagion and the rest of them were sleeping out in tents inside the gates. But they kept shifts, so one of them was always there when Zussman ever woke up. The medical staff were waking him up after four hours or so to give him something to eat. The doctor had gotten word back from Ohrdruff and was giving Zussman the same sorts of foods they were giving the poor people there. Fewer were dying as a result. But the doctor was getting concerned that Zussman didn't seem to be getting any stronger. Like he was still camped at death's doorstep. Well, maybe one step back away from it but still too damn close.

Dr. Harris had told Pierson they were concerned about internal bleeding, given all those bruises on his abdomen. If there was a bleeder, it was a slow one, which was good. But finding it would be tricky even in a person who hadn't spent the last month and half starving. Putting Zussman through surgery now, especially without a specific target, was very, very risky.

Pierson was on duty again when Dr. Harris tried palpitating different areas of Zuss's bruised torso to see if he could find a spot that hurt worse than the others. "How did you get all these bruises?" he asked casually when he was done.

Pierson watched Zussman's face go pale, and he wasn't sure he would answer. It took a little while but Zussman finally spoke. "Metz could hold a grudge."

"Metz?"

"Nazi leader there," Zussman said. "I called him a piece of shit." He took a breath. "And told him 'Fuck you.'"

Pierson remembered the story from the other POWs was very similar. But they had said the Nazi hadn't seemed to care about anything other than Zuss speaking good German. "He beat you for it?"

"Every day," Zussman said, "for the most part." He breathed again. "Worked too slow." Breath. "Or not hard enough." Breath. "Or he'd just make up an excuse."

"He didn't do this to the others?" Pierson asked, wanting to be clear. The picture of this camp was looking worse and worse with every phrase Zussman managed.

Zussman shook his head. "Not the same." He took a breath. "It was personal. Why I was left behind."

"How can you be sure?" Dr. Harris asked.

"Private Zussman speaks German," he told the doctor. Pierson leaned in closer to Zussman. "What do you mean why you were left behind?"

"He promised," Zussman said, "I'd never leave Berga alive."

"The other four in the clearing?" Pierson asked him.

"They were standing near me." He took a few breaths and his eyes seemed to be seeing something else. "There was a cart for the sick, the weakest. But for us it was '_Warten Sie zehn Minuten und schießen sie ab._'"

Pierson could guess, but the doctor understood it and translated. "Wait ten minutes and shoot them."

Pierson felt sick. Not just because they were that close to losing Zussman but that they were just ten minutes too late to liberate the others. That meant the platoon at the camp hadn't found the tracks. They had to have been almost on top of that camp by the time they found it burning.

"What day is it?" Zussman's question drew Pierson back from his thoughts.

"April 9th," Pierson told him. "We found you on the 6th."

"March 9th the first of us died." Zussman said, still with that faraway look. "Rogers. Goldman the next day. Then Young and Haughton. Simcox and Schultz. I lost track. Acevedo kept a record. He'd know."

"How many died?" Pierson asked.

They were losing him to sleep again. His eyelids were growing heavy. "Buried them outside. Acevedo kept a record."

Buried? Pierson realized he was going to have to go back there. There were more than the bodies on the ground. Some were under it, and most of the prisoners had been marched away. That had to leave a trail in the roads. It couldn't possibly go unnoticed.

Dr. Harris checked Zussman's pulse and listened to his breathing with his stethoscope. He put the oxygen mask back over Zuss's mouth and nose. Satisfied that Zuss was in no further danger, he hurried back to the tent where the others were waiting.

"What is it, sergeant?" Aiello asked, reading the expression off his face.

"Zussman talked about the camp. There are soldier buried there. The ones that died early on. Started dying a month ago today. He said Metz, the leader of the camp, singled him out for having cursed him out here at Bad Orb. Beat him every day. I'm guessing with the butt of rifle from the look of those bruises. Said Metz kept a grudge. Promised him he'd never leave there alive and sentenced him and four others to die when they evacuated the camp. We missed the others by minutes."

"He said all that?" Stiles sounded impressed.

"Yeah, took a lot of him but he just kept talking." Pierson replied. "Said 'Acevedo kept a record.'"

"Who's Acevedo?" Aiello asked.

"Not sure, another prisoner at any rate," Pierson told them. "I'm going back there. They need to know to look for the graves. Maybe there's a track to follow, from the evacuation."

Daniels stood up. "Davis is supposed to be here tomorrow. To scold us for disobeying orders, remember?"

Pierson looked him in the eye. "Show him Zussman?"

Daniels shook his head just a bit but smiled. "Speaking of, I'm up to sit with him."

Before Daniels could leave the tent, Stiles was on his feet. "I'm going with Pierson." He lifted his camera. "This needs to be documented. This was a crime on so many levels."

Pierson nodded. "Suit up, private. We leave in ten."

"Oh good, Daniels and I get to handle Davis," Aiello commented.

"We'll show him Zussman." Daniels said. "Spot me in five hours or so."

"You got it," Aiello replied and Daniels headed back to the infirmary.


	3. Chapter Three: Berga and Bad Orb

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Three: Berga and Bad Orb **

Pierson drove the three hours back to Berga. Stiles beside him was unusually quiet. "This has to be bigger than just Ohrdruff and Berga," Pierson said. "If they did this here, maybe they did other places, too."

"I don't know about POWs, well probably Russian ones. They didn't sign the Geneva Conventions," Stiles replied. "But civilians. There were articles in the papers, going back to the Nuremburg laws, Kristalnacht. They've had it in for Jews for a long time. And not just them. Political rivals like the communists. Anyone they'd consider inferior."

Pierson couldn't even imagine the numbers. "That's a hell of a lot of people."

"Yeah, they occupied most of Europe since 1939." Stiles turned to look at him. "I'd bet the Russians found other camps. They've already liberated Poland and other eastern countries, not to mention Russia itself."

They stopped at the main gate to the camp. The fires were out. "Thanks for bringing our truck back," one of the soldiers said. "Hey, Tom, they're back!"

"Thanks for taken care of our jeep," Pierson replied. The medic walked over to him.

"Did he make it?" Tom asked.

"He did," Stiles answered. "He's still struggling but he's holding on."

"Good to hear," Tom said. "That's a hell of lot better than the rest of them here. We found fifteen. Seems most died within days of the evacuation. Not all of them had dog tags. I'm not sure how we'll identify them."

"The ones without tags will be the Jewish ones. But the first POW died March 9th," Pierson told him. "Several others very soon after."

"He told you?" Tom seemed surprised. "Good, means he's more lucid."

"Yeah," Stiles replied. "Sleeps a lot. Very hungry."

"I'll bet." Tom returned to the subject of the dead. "If there are earlier deaths, where are the bodies?"

"Buried," Pierson told him.

"Did he say where?" Tom asked.

"No," Pierson answered. "He lost it before he could tell me. Fell back asleep. Said Acevedo kept a record. I think maybe this Acevedo survived to be evacuated."

"Good for him, but that record might be useful."

"Let your lieutenant know to look for the graves," Pierson requested. "I want to see if we can track the evacuation. Maybe find this Acevedo and the rest of them."

"Then you'll want to talk to Lt. Martin yourself," Tom said. "He took a few men and went that way the other day." He pointed toward a tent to the back of the platoon's camp.

"I'd like to take more photos in the camp," Stiles said, pointing toward the entrance to Berga.

Pierson nodded. "Okay, don't be long." He looked at the sky. The sun would be going down in an hour or two. "Looks like we'll be bunking with you all tonight," he told Tom, then started towards the lieutenant's tent.

Lt. Martin was looking over maps when Pierson entered. He looked up, then offered a hand. "So you're the ones that found the one survivor in this camp."

Pierson shook the hand that was offered. "In this camp. There are more out there. Three hundred fifty POWs were brought here. I'd like to try and find the rest of them."

"There's fighting not thirty miles from this position," Martin told him, pointing to a line of the map. "I wouldn't go until morning if I were you. And I warn you, it's not a walk in the park. We did follow the trail aways after you took your boy back to Bad Orb."

"What did you find?" Pierson asked.

"Bodies. Lots of them. Civilians mostly. An occasional POW."

Pierson blew out a breath. "Fucking Nazis!"

"Agreed." Martin replied. "It's late, I'll have my sergeant find you a bunk."

"There's two of us."

"Two bunks, then," Martin corrected. "You two had dinner? I know the area smells but you gotta eat."

"We haven't. Thank you." Pierson turned to go but turned back. "The one we found said there are POWs buried in this camp. They'll need to be found."

Martin blew out a breath. "They didn't make this easy, did they?"

Pierson shook his head. "Nothing about this was easy."

* * *

Zussman survived another night, much to Daniels and Aiello's relief. He just didn't look any better than he did two days ago. Daniels decided to ask the doctor about it.

"There still could be factors we don't know," Dr. Harris told him. "But from what I heard from Ohrdruff, this isn't unusual. Survivors are starved. They're exhausted. They had to keep going before on very little calories. Now they don't have to work, so their bodies are just using the calories their given to recover. And many of them are still just resting."

Daniels nodded. "They deserve that. Zuss deserves that."

"We don't want to push his body to do anything it's not ready to do at this point," Dr. Harris told him. "Given all those bruises on his abdomen, he could bleed internally. We're keeping a close eye on him. And he has you and the others. I know he appreciates having his friends beside him."

Daniels thanked him and returned to Zussman's side. Zuss was still sleeping, laying on his left side. That was often the case now. But he deserved the rest. So Daniels let him sleep.

* * *

Aiello was up early. He'd had his breakfast an hour ago. Davis was coming today and he was going to have to be the one to tell him Pierson wasn't there.

He watched the CO's jeep pull in through the front gate. One of the guards there pointed in Aiello's direction. _Show time,_ he thought.

The jeep stopped a couple yards away, and Colonel Davis came straight at him. Aiello stood to attention and saluted.

"Private Aiello," Davis said. "Where is Sergeant Pierson?"

Aiello kept his stance. "Sergeant Pierson and Private Stiles are in Berga, sir."

"He knew I was coming," Davis said. It wasn't really a question.

"Yes, sir," Aiello said. "He was hoping to find more of the surviving POWs."

"More," Davis repeated. "You found Private Zussman."

"Yes, sir," Aiello affirmed, "only just in time. He was about to be shot."

"And Corporal Daniels is where?"

"In the infirmary with Private Zussman," Aiello replied. "I can escort you there, sir."

"Let's go then." Davis ordered.

Aiello saluted again and then started toward the Infirmary. They passed liberated POWs and liberating soldiers as well, some in tents, some sitting around a fire with their breakfast. Aiello led the colonel up the stairs and held the door open for him. When they neared Zuss's bed, Daniels stood to attention and saluted as well.

Davis stared him down for a minute then turned his gaze toward Zussman. Zuss was turned on his side so his face wasn't as visible as they could probably have used. But his outline under the blankets was ever so thin. Davis stern visage softened.

"You found him."

"Yes, sir," Daniels said. "A guard was shooting prisoners. I got there just in time to pop that German before he shot the last. It was Zussman."

"How is he?"

"Starved, dehydrated, exhausted, beaten," Daniels replied, summarizing. "He sleeps a lot."

"Is he eating anything?"

"Yes sir," Daniels said. "Small meals, soft foods. He should be getting some breakfast here soon."

In fact, a nurse was on her way over with a bowl that probably held oatmeal. "Excuse me, Colonel," she said. "He's usually awake by now." Her eyes narrowed. She handed the bowl to Aiello and moved closer to Zussman. She shook his shoulder lightly but he didn't stir. The nurse checked his neck for a pulse then pulled the blankets away to Zuss's waist. The bruises were clearly visible. They kind of wrapped around his sides to his back.

Daniels eyes went wide. He slowly pushed Zuss's shoulder until he was more on his back. Then Aiello saw what shook Daniels. His left side was a deep purple color, almost solid.

"Get the doctor!" the nurse told Daniels. Daniels took off at a run.

"What is that?" Aiello asked her.

"Blood," she replied. "He's bleeding internally."

The doctor and Daniels came running back. Two other doctors followed him dragging a gurney. Aiello and the colonel stepped back out of the way. Aiello held the bowl with one hand and crossed himself with the other. Zussman couldn't die now. Not after they saved him. It wouldn't be right.

The doctor's transferred Zussman to the gurney and started wheeling him away. The nurse pulled the IV stand along with them and one of the doctors grabbed the oxygen tank.

Daniels was just standing there, one hand over his mouth.

Davis put a hand on his shoulder. "Have a seat, son. You can't help him now. It's up to the doctors."

Daniels sat in the chair. Aiello sat down on the edge of the bed. "How'd this happen?"

"You said he was beaten," Davis said. "It can happen after that. Even days after. Happened to my baby brother after a car accident. He didn't start bleeding for two days."

"Did he make it, sir?"

"I'm very sorry to say he did not," Davis said. He put his hand back on Daniels' shoulder. "He wasn't in a hospital when it happened. We couldn't get him to one fast enough. Zussman _is_ in a hospital. He's got a good chance here."

"But he's so weak and thin," Daniels said.

"If we'd waited," Aiello said, knowing it wasn't his place, "for authorization, we might not have found him in time. Even if he wasn't shot he would have died right there."

Davis sat down on the other side of the bed. "I get it. I'll still have to reprimand Pierson. Can't just let disobedience go. People'll think I play favorites. But that's all it'll be. Private Aiello, do you think you think you find a chaplain out there."

"Yes, sir." Aiello left the bowl on the bed and ran out of the infirmary. He went to the first group of soldiers he could find and asked for a chaplain. He was pointed off to the right so he ran that way and asked again. He tried to think. Should it be a Jewish chaplain or would it matter? Really, it was the same God, right? Just Old Testament and not the New.

Finally, he spotted one. "We need a chaplain in the infirmary."

The chaplain put a hand on his shoulder. "Catch your breath, then lead the way."

Aiello stood a minute then nodded and led him back toward the Infirmary. "My friend," he told him as they walked briskly, "he's Jewish. We found him in a concentration camp. He barely survived that. Now he's bleeding internally. I think they took him back for surgery."

"A concentration camp?" the chaplain asked. "That poor man."

They went inside and Davis and Daniels stood again. "We may as well sit," the chaplain said. "I'm Chaplain Isaiah."

Daniels shook his hand then sat again.

"What's the man's name?" Isaiah asked, sitting on the bed with Davis and Aiello.

"Zussman," Davis replied. "Private Robert Zussman."

"What was one of our men doing in a concentration camp?" Isaiah asked. "But never mind that for now." He held out his hands. Daniels took one. Aiello took the other and they both held out a hand to the colonel, who took them. "I think we'll start with Psalm 23. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'"

Isaiah bowed his head and continued, "Lord, You are Robert's shepherd, and You've brought him through war and imprisonment with many hardships. He is Your child, one of Your chosen. He faces another trial now and we ask You to lead him through it and back to the arms of his friends and his family back home. Help him to know that there is still a God, even here, even in the struggles when so many lose their faith. Help him to survive this surgery and to regain all his lost strength in the days and weeks ahead. Help him to go on to a beautiful life where goodness and mercy follow him all the days of that life. Allow him to dwell in Your house for ever, Lord. In Your holy name, we pray. Amen."

"Amen," Daniels said.

Aiello crossed himself again. "Amen." Then he put his head in his head. He fought back tears but he just couldn't stop them. He saw the dead and near dead in Ohdruff the bodies in Berga. Zussman. He replayed the things he'd said to Howard and felt disgusted in himself.

"Thank you," Davis said.

Isaiah moved closer to Aiello and put an arm around him. "Have faith, son. God is still in the business of miracles."

"I'm sorry!" It just burst out.

"What for?" Daniels asked.

He stood up. "For all the stupid things I said about Jews, the racist things I said to Howard. What we saw in Ohrdruff and Berga, that's what it leads to. I grew up with that same hatred in me. That hatred that killed all those people."

"Ah," Isaiah said. "But there is one difference."

Aiello turned to him, hoping it was true that he wasn't a monster like them. "What?"

Isaiah stood and came around the bed to stand in front of him. "You see it," he said. "You see that in yourself and you now see it's wrong. So you don't have to carry that anymore. You can just let it go."

Aiello was skeptical. "Just like that?"

Isaiah nodded. He smiled. "Yeah, just like that. That hatred is a burden and Jesus wants you to put all your burdens on Him. You don't have to carry them anymore. Let the hatred go and hold on to the love you have for your friend. That's the good stuff. You fill your heart with love and there's no place left for hatred. It may take some practice but I think you're already on your way."

Daniels walked over and put hand on Aiello's shoulder. "I watched you feed him that oatmeal you know. There wasn't a drop of hatred in that."

Aiello managed a smile and thought that maybe, just maybe, his shoulders were feeling lighter all the sudden.

Davis was still sitting. "Why don't you help me get to know Private Zussman? Tell me about him."

The nurse returned to them so they didn't get to tell much.

"How is he?" Daniels asked, standing again.

"We found the bleeder," she said. "But he's lost a lot of blood. We don't have enough to give him."

Davis stood. "We have a whole camp of healthy soldiers out there. What type?"

"O negative would be best."

"I'm on it," Davis said. He looked to Isaiah. "You with me?"

"Yes, sir, Colonel," Isaiah said. "We'll find some donors."

Aiello raised his hand. "Got one right here."

The nurse smiled. "Come with me."

Aiello followed her as the colonel and chaplain went outside. Aiello offered Daniels a look back. He looked a little lost there on his own.

* * *

Pierson and Stiles followed the trail with three of Martin's men at their side. They could smell the bodies before they could see them. They littered the road about half a mile from where they'd found Zussman. Mostly civilians by their clothes. They had been gunned down. Pierson was not going to be deterred by that. They stepped carefully around the bodies and moved on. The tracks went past little houses. As they passed, curtains were hastily pulled over windows. Those people probably saw something. But Pierson couldn't speak to them. Zussman was the one who knew German.

After an hour of walking and finding a body here and a body there, they came to a fork in the road. There were tracks going forward, and going both ways to the side. There was no way to know which was the trail of the POWs of Berga. They couldn't split up. There were only five of them, and the front wasn't too far away. And who knows, maybe one of those houses had a gun. One soldier walking alone might not make it back.

Pierson wasn't happy about it.

"How many marches like that are there?" Stiles asked.

"Too many," one of the other soldiers, Berounsky, said.

"We should head back." That was Bordello.

Pierson didn't like it but he was right. "Yeah, we're not finding anyone alive today."

Ninety minutes later they were back in the little camp outside Berga. Lt. Martin met them. "I take it you didn't find them."

"Followed as far as we could," Stiles said. "Tracks went every which way."

"I'm sorry," Lt. Martin said. "You gonna stay for lunch?"

Pierson shook his head. "Thanks for the hospitality, but we gotta get back to Bad Orb."

"See how Zussman's doing," Stiles said.

"And face my reckoning with Colonel Davis." Pierson added.

Martin smirked. "Good luck with that. Jeep's all ready for you."


	4. Chapter Four: Back to Bad Orb

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Four: Back in Bad Orb**

When Pierson and Stiles reached the gates of Bad Orb, they were stopped by the guard there who told them that Colonel Davis was waiting for them. He helpfully, pointed the way to the tent the Colonel was occupying. Pierson dropped Stiles off so he could go to the infirmary and check in on Zussman and the others, while he resigned himself to the inevitable. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he was dressed down. Or demoted, for that matter.

He parked the jeep then walked to the tent. He brushed open the flaps and stepped inside. Davis was talking with someone else, his back to Pierson. Pierson approached halfway then stopped and stood at attention to wait. While he did so, he wondered how Zussman was doing. Maybe he'd be more awake today, a little stronger than before he and Stiles had left.

Finally, the other soldier brushed passed Pierson and left. Davis turned to face him. His expression wasn't helpful. He didn't look angry but he didn't look not angry either. Pierson wasn't sure what Davis was going to say but he certainly didn't expect what he did say. "What's your blood-type, Sergeant?"

"Sir?" Pierson wasn't sure why he'd be asking that.

"Blood-type?"

But then he was a colonel, and Pierson was just a sergeant who had disobeyed orders. Again. "A positive, sir."

"That's too bad. Still, I think we've found more than enough for now."

"I'm at a loss, sir," Pierson admitted, still at attention.

"We've been looking for donors. O negative. For your man, Zussman."

Something sunk in Pierson's chest. Blood donors? What had happened? He needed to go.

It must have shown on his face. "I can't just let you off the hook for disobeying orders, Sergeant," Davis told him. "The war's not quite over yet."

"Understood, sir."

"But Zussman would have died if you hadn't," Davis went on. "Did you find any of the other POWs back at Berga?"

"No, sir," he admitted. "Well, not survivors. Found a few more of our men dead, many civilian casualties. They were marched out of the camp, apparently the day we got there. Tracked them until we ran into other tracks. No way to know which one to follow further."

"God-willing, we'll find them soon," Davis said. "As for Zussman, he had a setback. Last I heard, he was in surgery and had lost a lot of blood. Thus the need for donors. Go, Sergeant, be with your men."

Pierson saluted and turned to go. But Davis wasn't quite done. So he stopped and turned back. "But consider yourself heavily reprimanded and stop disobeying my orders."

Pierson smiled. "Thoroughly reprimanded and deservedly so."

"Keep me posted, Sergeant."

"Will do, sir." Pierson turned again and left. As soon as he was outside, he sprinted to the infirmary. He found Aiello in the bed where Zussman had been and Stiles beside him in the chair. Daniels wasn't there. Aiello had a small bandange around his elbow.

"They're looking for O negative donors," Stiles said.

"I heard," Pierson said.

"I was the first volunteer," Aiello said, holding up his bandaged arm. "They told me to rest for a couple hours. No word yet, but they took Daniels back to see the doctor."

Pierson lightly slapped Aiello on the leg. Aiello moved his legs over so the sergeant could sit. "What happened?"

"Not sure," Aiello replied. "He was asleep. We thought. Nurse comes over to feed him breakfast but he wouldn't wake up. She pulled back his blanket and Zuss's whole left side was dark. They grabbed him quick and took him to surgery. Nurse came back a bit later saying he needed blood."

"How long's it been?" Pierson asked.

"A couple hours, I think," Aiello told him. "We found a chaplain. CO prayed with us, too."

"Daniels just went back there," Stiles told him. "Just before I got here."

"Surgery's probably done, then," Pierson concluded. "Doctor would have come if he didn't make it."

* * *

Daniels felt a little uncomfortable with the booties and mask over the lower half of his face, but he understood it was to protect Zuss. Doctor Harris led him past the operating room. "I want you to know," Harris said, "that I'm the only American doctor here. A German doctor assisted me during the surgery. I let him know in no uncertain terms that I'd have him shot if he didn't' do his very best to care for the patient. I see no reason to have him executed now that it's over."

They entered a smaller space with close beds. It felt more sterile here. Everyone who wasn't a patient was wearing a mask and booties over their shoes. They stopped at the foot of Zussman's bed. Well, at least five feet away from it. Zuss looked very small even in that small bed. His stomach was covered in bandages, and his ribs were visible in his chest. There was a tube in his nose. An IV with blood was hanging beside the bed and connected via a tube to his right arm. Zuss was unconscious.

"From the look of his bruises," Dr. Harris said, "it seems he was getting a rifle butt to the abdomen fairly often. Did you happen to see or learn anything else? Something particularly on his left side?"

Daniels played in his memory the scene as he was coming out of the woods. Shots beyond the trees. A prisoner running, shot in the back. Another shoved down by a German with a pistol. The prisoner landed hard and cried out. It was Zussman and he'd landed on his left side. "German guard was shooting prisoners. I came through the trees and saw one shot as he was running. Then the German threw Zussman to the ground, hard."

"Left side?"

Daniels nodded.

The doctor explained, "Could be when it happened. He had no padding beyond any clothing he'd have on. He has no fat at all. His spleen ruptured. That's what caused the bleeding. It probably clotted and it was fine for a day or two. But it didn't hold. Started bleeding again sometime in the night. We're very lucky we caught it when we did."

Daniels couldn't even speak for a bit. He just looked at his friend. Finally he said, "He's gonna be okay, then?"

Dr. Harris took a breath. "This is a delicate time. We had to make a large incision, explore his abdomen until we found the bleeder. We did and we stopped it. But that surgery is a new trauma to his already weak body. We'll have a very tight watch on him for the next few days at least. We're tube feeding him because he definitely still needs to eat. I've asked for another doctor to help out. Otherwise, we'll have to trust the German doctors here, and I don't think that's in his best interest just now. I've got three American nurses. They'll work in shifts. Found some medics among the former prisoners to help watch him, too. You boys will have to stay away for a bit. The risk of infection is just too high. We'll most likely keep him sedated anyway."

Daniels didn't like that but at least Zuss wouldn't wake up alone. He just wouldn't be waking up for a bit. He probably wouldn't like that tube in his nose much if he did. A nurse led Daniels back toward where Aiello was waiting. She took the booties and the mask. Daniels was surprised to see Stiles and Pierson were back, too.

"Davis read you the riot act?" he asked Pierson as he joined them.

Pierson smiled. "I've been deservedly reprimanded. But he updated me on Zussman first. What'd the doctor say?"

"Ruptured spleen," Daniels told them. "He's in another area now, sedated. They're feeding him through a tube in his nose. He'll be there a few days at least while he recovers from the surgery. We can't go back there without risking infection. I had to stand quite a few feet back and wear a mask and booties over my boots. How about you? Did you find them?"

Stiles frowned. "Found a few more dead."

"And told the lieutenant there to look for the graves," Pierson added. "We followed the tracks of the march but ran into so many others we didn't know which to follow."

"Germans are probably evacuating a lot of camps before they can be liberated," Stiles said. "Either to hide evidence-"

"Then why leave all the bodies layin' around?" Aiello interjected.

"-or," Stiles continued, "they are dead set on not letting any prisoners go."

"At least we got some in Ohrdruff," Daniels said.

"And Zuss," said Aiello.

Pierson stood up. "I got a feeling the Allies will find more and more horrors before this is over," he concluded. "The only good news is that it will be over soon."

"Amen to that," Aiello said. "Well since we can't stay with Zuss, how about we find some grub out there?"

Stiles gave Aiello a hand standing up. Daniels gave one more look back the way they'd taken Zuss. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll check back often," Pierson said. Daniels nodded and they left the Infirmary. "Oh, and Davis wanted an update. Since you talked to the doctor..."

Daniels smirked. "Yeah, I got it. Save me some grub."

* * *

After Daniels reported the ruptured spleen to Col. Davis, the colonel handed him a document. "Orders, Corporal," he said softly. Daniels detected no harshness in his voice. "Pass them on to Pierson. War's not over yet and you boys are in the Army. And in the Army, we do what we're told."

Daniels glanced at the orders. They were to ship out in the morning. Zuss wouldn't even be woken up for days.

That concern must have shown on his face, because Davis put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to keep tabs on Private Zussman, don't you worry. I will keep you updated on his progress."

Daniels hated it but Davis was right. They'd ignored orders too long already. And maybe if they kept going, they'd find the other Berga POWs. "Yes, sir," he replied. "Thank you, sir."

Daniels left the tent in a foul mood. He found the others and sat down next to Stiles, who handed him his meal. "You look glum," he commented. "Food's not _that_ bad."

"For Army food," Aiello finished for him.

Daniels handed the papers to Pierson.

"Not the food," Stiles deduced.

Pierson took a moment to read them then blew out a breath. "We're heading out in the morning. We gotta meet up with the rest of the Third Army southeast of here."

Aiello put his fork down. "So we have to leave Zussman here? What's he gonna think when they wake him up and we're not there?"

Daniels couldn't answer. He tucked into his meal without really tasting it. He'd given up his leave for Zussman. Every battle, every bullet fired since then was to get closer to finding Zussman. And every minute thereafter was to make sure Zussman was still alive. It was jarring to be pulled out of that focus and dropped back into the mission of stopping Hitler and ending the war. Without Zussman. "Colonel Davis said he'd keep us updated. He'd keep tabs on Zuss."

"Still gonna wake up here wondering where we are," Stiles said. He sounded glum, too.

Pierson sighed. "Yeah. On the bright side, we're going to kill us some more Nazis and maybe liberate some more prisoners."

"Or find 'em on the road," Daniels added, trying hard to see that bright side. "And when we get a moment, we can write him."


	5. Chapter Five: Bad Orb & the Ruhr Valley

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Five: Bad Orb and the Ruhr Valley**

_April 11, 1945 _

_Zusssman, _

_I'm sorry we had to leave but orders are orders. But Col. Davis told me he'd keep us updated about you. I thought maybe you'd like to be updated about us. _

_We haven't caught up with the First yet. We'll probably meet up with them tomorrow. We did, however find Third Army just outside Weimar. There is a very big camp there. Buchenwald. _

_The things we saw there—well, I think you're probably familiar, only this was on a much greater scale. The Nazis had been evacuating this camp, too. Seems they just want to keep their prisoners from being liberated. I just don't understand how anyone could look at another human being and want to treat them the way they've been treating these people. Or you. It shocks me that this brutality can happen in a civilized European country. How did this happen? _

_On a brighter note, we heard the prisoners here in Buchenwald actually liberated themselves. A Polish engineer worked with a Russian POW on a hidden radio they'd built. They sent out a message in English, Russian, and German. Four minutes later, Third Army answered, saying to hold on because they were comin'. So the prisoners attacked their guards and opened the gates to the Third. _

_The survivors are in bad shape. They're getting help though. Some of these prisoners came from miles and miles away. The Germans marched them out of other camps. Just like they did the other prisoners from Berga. We hoped some of your fellow prisoners might be there for the liberation but there were no Americans. _

_I know that as I write this, you're still asleep, healing. I want you to know that I was offered the chance to go home after I was shot. I turned it down because I had to find you. We were looking for you when we found you. We never forgot about you. Not for a minute. I don't regret staying. Because we did find you. Heal, Zussman. Get better. We'll see you again after this war is finally over. _

_Sincerely,  
Red Daniels_

* * *

Colonel Davis looked across the room at Private Zussman. His transformation could be called amazing if the conditions that caused it hadn't been so horrendous. And illegal. And he'd only been in Berga since February. "How is he, Doctor Harris? Will he live?"

"It's certainly possible," Doctor Harris responded. "I can't guarantee it. His ordeal has weakened his body, his immune system. The stitches are barely holding his skin together because he has no slack in his skin. He can survive but it's not going to an easy road for him. It would be easier for him with his friends."

"There's a war on, Doctor," Davis reminded him, "to stop the people who would do what they did to him and what they're doing to thousands of others."

"I get that," Harris told him. "But I worked in a hospital in Boston before the war. I saw that patients who had people healed faster than patients that didn't."

Davis sighed. He didn't doubt what the doctor said. "Keep me apprised of his condition, daily reports, any changes. If and when he's up to it, I want to get him transferred to France. He's been in Germany too long already."

The doctor nodded. "Yes, sir."

Davis left wondering what exactly had happened to Zussman and the other Berga POWs. He'd seen photos of Ohrdruff and now he'd seen Bad Orb. The former was monstrous, the latter unenviable. Somewhere between the two, perhaps. Or had it been just like Ohrdruff? Two months for him to go from a strong, capable soldier to an emaciated shell of a man. He couldn't imagine the conditions, not really. And Zussman wasn't exactly able to explain it at the moment.

Just as he'd reminded Pierson of his duty, Davis was also under orders. The army was on the move, and he was part of the army. He'd made a detour to reprimand Pierson and bring him back into the fold. It was time to head back himself. Zussman was in good hands and soon, God willing, he'd be back in France and far from the fighting and the people who imprisoned him.

As soon as he left the infirmary, he heard the buzz. It was like a shock had hit the camp, leaving everyone somber and talking in hushed tones. He went to the nearest group of men. They were warming themselves around a fire. "What is it?" he asked.

"The president is dead, sir," a private told him. "FDR."

That was a blow he had not expected. He hurried back to his tent. "Radio HQ," he ordered before the tent flaps had settled.

"You heard," Garret said, as he rang up headquarters. He handed the radio to the colonel.

The voice on the other end confirmed the news. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was dead. Harry Truman was now the President of the United States. They'd lost their leader through most of four terms. He'd led the nation out of the depression, and into this war after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Now the war against Germany was winding down but the one against Japan was not. He hoped Truman could fill the great man's shoes.

* * *

_April 12, 1945 _

_Zussman, _

_We caught up with the rest of the division today. Big things are about to happen, but you know I can't be specific about it. _

_We got sad news today. FDR has died. Harry Truman is the new president. Should be interesting having someone from the Midwest in the White House. He's got big shoes to fill. _

_Sorry I can't write more today. We'll get back to see you as soon as we can. _

_Red_

* * *

It had been a week since Private Zussman's surgery. He was still alive, which was something. There was no infection in his abdomen, which was good. The incision was still an issue. As he was fed, little by little, he gained weight, which stretched his skin and pulled on the stitches. Lord knew he needed to gain weight but he also needed his incision to heal fully. Reclining or sitting up could produce some slack, so Harris decided it was time to wake Private Zussman.

The feeding tube was the first to go. The medication keeping him unconscious was backed off. It left him groggy. They were easing him up. His breathing deepened and it was time to move him.

Given that Zussman was their only concentration camp patient, they kept him somewhat isolated. There were fewer former POWs in the infirmary now anyway. His new bed was in a quiet corner. Several pillows had been stacked at the head of the bed to raise the private into a reclining position. It would allow him to eat more easily, too.

Once safely moved, they waited for him to finish waking up. Dr. Harris wasn't happy that he wouldn't see a friend when he did so, so he determined Zussman would at least see a friendly face. He pulled up a chair and waited.

* * *

Zussman became aware of a pain in his abdomen. Something had happened. Something bad. He opened his eyes and squinted in the light. He looked for Daniels or Aiello but only saw the doctor.

"Welcome back, Private," the doctor said. "How do you feel?"

"Hurts," he replied. His voice sounded strangely slow to himself. He tried to point to where it hurt but his hand just kind of flopped.

"You had a bit of a setback, I'm afraid," the doctor explained. "Your spleen ruptured during the night and you bled internally. We had to take you to surgery. We kept you asleep for awhile after that to help you recover. Today is April 17th."

Seventeenth. What day was it before? He remembered the 9th. He'd told Pierson about the ones who had died. "Pierson," he said aloud.

"Your squad was ordered back to the front," the doctor told him. "I'm sure they wanted to be here when you woke up. In fact, we've already received a couple letters for you from Corporal Daniels."

They were gone. He was alone again. Same doctor, so still in a POW camp. But free. He had to remind himself he was free.

The doctor reached into his pocket and pulled out two letters. He handed them to Zussman.

He took them and held them for a moment. Metz wasn't here to take them away. They were his. He laid one on his lap and tried to open the other but his hands were clumsy.

"Let me help," the doctor suggested. "You've only been out of anesthesia for a few minutes. You'll get stronger."

Zussman let the doctor open both letters then held them up to read. He could hear Daniels' Texas accent as he read. The first told of a bigger camp where the prisoners liberated themselves. He had talked to some of the civilian prisoners in Berga. He knew of bigger camps like Buchenwald. He'd heard of a very large one in Poland. Auschwitz. One young man had come from there. He felt Berga was a huge step up. Zussman couldn't understand that, couldn't imagine it. Then the young man told him about gas chambers where thousands could be killed each day and burned up in ovens.

The next letter was short. They were getting close to a battle from the sounds of it. So the war wasn't over, still. But the president was dead. "FDR died."

"Yes," the doctor confirmed. "Five days ago."

He looked at the dates of the letters. April 11 and 12. "No more letters?"

"I'm sorry, no."

Had something happened? How would he know? No one would have reason to notify him if his friends had died.

"Colonel Davis wants you transferred to a hospital in France," the doctor told him. "Thinks maybe you've had enough time in Germany."

He'd certainly had enough of Germans. Red had it right in his first letter. How did a civilized people, the people of Mozart and Goethe, become the monsters they'd turned into? They starved people, worked them to death, beat them to death, gassed them to death. They rewarded cruelty and punished compassion. Zussman knew he had family, distant relatives who'd been in Germany. His mother's sisters. His father's uncle. Were they still alive?

He nodded. "I think so, too."

The doctor put a hand on his arm then stood up. "We're going to keep you for a least another day or two. But I'll find a bed for you in France. A nurse will be by in a bit to give you some soup and something for the pain."

The nurse did come, and she did give him a couple of pills. His stomach—well, his torso—still hurt but was dulled somewhat. She checked his wound and he got a look thanks to his reclining position. It was a longer incision than when he'd been stabbed. He'd been out of the fighting for seven weeks after that. The doctor had said it was one week after surgery. The bruises from before were turning more green and yellow. Still, he felt tired and weak and hungry, always hungry. He also felt lonely.

We he was captured, he wasn't alone. He missed his squad, his platoon, but he had plenty of other captured soldiers around him. None of them knew what to expect, though they weren't too fearful. The Geneva Conventions protected prisoners of war. And for a couple of months that was the way it worked out. It was boring for the most part; cold, given the harsh winter; and even over-crowded. But they were all in it together. Then when they were separated and he spoke out, he was seen as something of a minor hero. When in fact he had a big headache from the German's blow, and he was more frightened than ever. Given his family in Germany, his parents had followed the news there carefully. And after the Nazis took over, it just got worse and worse for Jews. There was no illusion for Zussman that this camp would be like Bad Orb. The German had wanted Jews, the lowest of the low in Nazi eyes.

Still the level of cruelty, depravity and loathing shocked him. The blatant mockery of the Geneva Conventions shocked all of them. Again, he was not alone. While in the train, and later in the camp, he'd gotten to know some of the other Berga POWs.

He served, early on, as a translator, explaining to the others what the Germans had said. What they were meant to do at the worksite, what the routine would be. When Metz showed him what he had in store for Zussman, it still didn't isolate him the way Metz had hoped. He was singled out, punished when others attempted to help him or defend him. But it didn't stop them once they were behind the closed doors in the darkness of the barracks. Hell, the medics had even cut an inch-wide strip from each of their blankets to wrap around his torso under his uniform in order to give him an added bit of padding against the rifle-butts Metz favored. Given the cold and unheated barracks, it was quite a gesture of solidarity. And these men, too, became his friends. Many were Jewish but a lot weren't. Still, there was little anti-Semitism to be found among them. Some of the non-Jews may not have liked Jews but they certainly didn't agree with what the Nazis were doing to the Jewish people—civilians or otherwise—in their grasp. Even more so since they were treated the same way the Nazis were treating Jews.

The result was that they had become something of a unit. Each man struggled to survive, but they also encouraged each other, helped each other where they could, and mourned the ones who didn't survive. Then they were gone on a march and he was left to be shot with a few others. Only it didn't happen because his squad—Daniels, Pierson, Aiello, and Stiles—had been looking for him and they found him. And they stayed with him right up until the surgery.

Now he didn't have them. He didn't have the Berga POWs. Were they even still alive? Were they still marching? He was alone. And it felt lonely.

The loneliness made it harder to push away memories. Memories that hurt, either for the good things he didn't have now, or the very bad things he'd had to endure, that he was still enduring. He looked at his arms. They weren't the arms of a soldier. His hands shook at the end of bony limbs. It was almost as if he had no muscle in them, but he could move them so some muscle remained. His legs were sticks under the blankets, making his feet look over-sized. He hadn't been this thin when he was twelve and teased for being a bean pole.

In an effort to stop the memories, because he had nothing better to do, and because he was still so very tired, he let his eyes close until he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Daniels set his weapon down then pulled off his pack. He sat down on his cot and let his muscles relax. It had been a hard fright but now the Germans were surrendering in droves. The Bloody First took heavy losses but not their squad. At least not the four of them. Some of the new recruits were injured but at least still alive. Daniels didn't know how he could ever tell Zussman that one of the others had died. He was glad he didn't have to. Still it had been almost a week since he'd written and Zuss was back there alone.

_April 18, 1945 _

_Zussman, _

_I finally got a minute to write. We'd been fighting pretty solid for most of this last week. The First linked up with the Third and surrounded half the Ruhr valley. The Germans didn't give up right away though. Spent the last three days still fightin' 'em. But they started giving up yesterday, and they're surrendering by the thousands today. _

_I wish you had been here with us, but I'm also glad you're safe where you are and I hope you never have to see another Nazi with a gun for the rest of your very long life. _

_We're fine, by the way. Aiello, Stiles, Pierson and I made it out okay. I can't say where we're going next, but I can say we feel it. The Germans are fighting hard but it's like a last all-out effort. They're losing. We're winning. This war can't last much longer. _

_We haven't found the other Berga POWs yet, I'm sad to say. But we have heard of another big camp the Brits liberated. Bergen-Belson had a lot of prisoners. Many of them had ended what they called Death Marches there. I'm afraid that's what the other prisoners from Berga are on. It doesn't bode well. This thing the Nazis have done is huge. It's horrible. It's a crime Germany will never be able to make up for. _

_Red_

* * *

_April 18, 1945 _

_Condition Report: Pvt. Robert Zussman _

_Private Zussman's condition has improved slightly. His incision is beginning to heal with no indications of infection. He is awake and responsive though still weak. He continues to be entirely too thin, a fact that will not change for some time. We plan to introduce a bit of solid, though soft, food tomorrow. He is lonely and bored. At this time he has not received any news from his family at home. Has his family been notified of his liberation? I found a temporary bed in Bastogne for him. Provided he continues to improve, we plan to transfer him on the 20th. _

_Dr. William Harris_

* * *

Zussman woke early, as soon as the light filtered in through the windows. He was tried but his stomach hurt and he was hungry. He was always hungry. They had promised him solid food for breakfast.

He thought back to the last time he had had a real meal of at least minimally nutritious food. It was here in Bad Orb before the selection and transfer to Berga. Powdered eggs, thick brown bread, ersatz coffee. Decent meal in a POW camp. Better were the Red Cross packages they received at New Year's. Chocolates, Spam, crackers, cookies, even fruitcake. They'd had to share as the camp was overcrowded but Zussman remembered it like Thanksgiving dinner back home. Before the depression.

But once in the train, all that was over. Three days they were in those trains. No water, no food, no sanitation. And then in the camp, they barely received any food at all. A small amount of bread that had to be shared by five men. And the bread didn't feel or taste like bread. It felt sandy with hard bits. The guards taunted them, telling them there was glass in it. But they were so hungry they ate it anyway. The soup they were given was mostly water, some weeds for greens. Maybe there was a hint of a vegetable or a scrap of meat. Meat of what? Again, the guards told them cat or rat or dog. No way to know. They drank it anyway.

Food became the most important thing in their lives. It was never enough. Day by day, they grew weaker, hungrier, sicker. The Red Cross packages came only twice. The first time the Germans held onto them for almost two weeks. They finally released them late March. Metz made sure Zussman got none of it. While his fellow POWs enjoyed the treats inside, Metz made Zussman stand outside in the snow. The second came on Easter—and Passover. Again, Metz made him stand outside.

There was one thing that was more important than food. With that first set of Red Cross packages, the Germans released letters from home. There was a letter for Zussman, too. From his mother. Metz opened it and held it up in front of him, close enough that he could recognize her handwriting. And then Metz pulled out a lighter and set one corner on fire. Zussman tried hard to make out some words, there in the feeble illumination of the camp lights and the flame burning away his mother's words. Only when the guards called for lights out, and his letter was in ashes in the snow, was he allowed back in the barracks.

Zussman felt around on the bed until he found them. His letters from Daniels. He read them again, then folded them carefully as the nurse was coming with his breakfast. He could smell it, see the steam rising off the heat of the food. Eggs. She set the tray on the chair beside the bed while she helped him sit up straighter. Scrambled eggs, with cheese melted over them. It wasn't the spread he was hoping for but his mouth started watering anyway. She put the tray in his lap and he lifted the fork. Shaky hands or no, he was going to feed himself.

He couldn't remember anything ever tasting as good as those eggs. They were moist but stiff and not too runny, the cheese perfectly melted. He wanted to savor those eggs, but he just couldn't.

The nurse's hand on his arm slowed him down. "It's not going anywhere," she said, smiling gently.

Zussman forced himself to chew each bite and swallow before lifting the fork with another bite. The eggs were warm, lightly salted, cheesy, and gone far too soon. There beside his plate was a cup of milk and two small pills. The nurse helped steady his hand as he drank the milk and swallowed the pills.

"Let me know if you have any discomfort," the nurse said as she gathered up the tray.

"Can I have more?" he asked.

She smiled. "In a bit, if your body can safely tolerate this. Your body didn't just shrink. It changed. You spent so long without food that your body wasn't used to it anymore. We're hoping, by going slow with easy, soft foods, that your body will get used to it again. So if you can keep those eggs down, it only gets better from here."

She took the tray and left. Zussman took out his letters again. He wanted to write Daniels back but what could he write about besides waking up and getting to eat eggs? He could write his mother. She was probably worried sick. But he could barely hold that fork. How could he hold a pen steady enough? And how could he tell her everything he'd been through? It would only make her more worried.

So once again, he was bored and left with nothing but his thoughts and memories. So he slept. And he told himself that was a luxury. In Berga, he'd rarely gotten a full night's sleep. He'd have to get up every day when the world was still dark, eat what was pitifully provided, then march to the tunnels knowing he'd be breathing in dust all day. It scratched at their throats, make them cough. Then he had to march back, beaten and bruised. Sometimes he had to crawl back. No one was allowed to help him.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Pierson asked as he entered Col. Davis's tent and stood to attention.

"At ease, Sergeant," Davis said. "Your unit fought well out there these last few days."

"Thank you, sir," Pierson replied, relaxing his stance. "We really want to defeat these Nazis."

"To get back to Zussman?"

Pierson didn't give him an answer exactly. "And to punish them for what they did to him, to the other Berga POWs, and millions of civilians all over Europe. They were enemies before, sir. Now we know they criminals, monsters."

"I saw Buchenwald," Davis told him. "After I left Bad Orb. The good people of Weimar said they didn't know what was going on down the street. How could they not? You could smell it from the train station. Many of those prisoners didn't have anyone left. Their families were wiped out, whole villages."

Pierson knew that and it made him sick to even imagine the scale.

"Zussman is awake as of two days ago. He's responsive. They're going to transfer him to an Army hospital in Bastogne."

Pierson wanted to run back and tell the others. "That's good news, sir." He'd been worried with no news. They all had.

Davis handed him a piece of paper. "New orders," he said. "Zussman has people, and since he can't come to you..."

Pierson looked at the orders. He, Corporal Daniels, and Privates Aiello and Stiles were temporarily transferred to the Army group in Bastogne, France.

Davis handed him another paper. "I have a hunch you still want to find the other Berga POWs. This will let you do it. Be careful. Stay behind the lines. Don't get out too far and let a sniper pick you off."

Pierson wanted to thank him, maybe even hug him, but he restrained himself. "The war's not over, sir."

"We can manage it without four men, Sergeant."

"Thank you, sir."

"Dismissed." Davis turned away. "Oh, I'll still want to know how he's doing."

"Yes, sir." Pierson saluted and left the tent and hurried to the guys' tent. Not surprisingly, he found Daniels writing another letter. Of course, it might have been to Hazel. But it could have been to Zuss. So he took a gamble. "You're not going to have to mail that letter," he said.

Daniels looked up.

"What's up, Sarge?" Aiello asked. He was playing cards with Stiles on his cot.

"New orders," Pierson said, holding up the papers. "War's gonna have to go on without the four of us. We're going where Zuss is going. Bastogne."

Stiles stood up. "Really? How is he?"

"Davis said he woke up two days ago. He's responsive. I guess that means he's talking. He's being transferred out of Bad Orb tomorrow. So pack up, we'll head out in the morning, too."

* * *

_April 19, 1945 _

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Zussman, _

_It has come to my attention that you may not be aware of your son's status. I'm certain you were notified of his capture in December. He was first held in Bad Orb POW camp, then, in February, he was transferred to a smaller camp. I can't, at this time, divulge details of his imprisonment except to say that his health was affected. He was liberated on April 6th and has been under the care of the United States Army Medical Corps. _

_I am also certain that he would very much appreciate a word from home. I'm sure he will write you when he is feeling better. We will send him home once he's well enough for the long trip back across the Atlantic. I assure you he's receiving the best care possible. _

_Sincerely, _

_Colonel Davis  
United States Army_

Footnote: The Ruhr Pocket battle that Red wrote of in his letter was a real battle the First played a part in. I did a bit of research (I really don't like researching, I'd much rather just know everything up front. But sometimes I just want to know something and sometimes I need to know something.) I wanted to know about the First's movements in the war and found that the game did a good job of hitting the highlights. Everywhere we fought in the game, the First fought. They went on after Remagen. The next battle I heard about was the Ruhr pocket. I do know they fought a couple battles in Czechoslovakia but I couldn't find details on those. The internet is a wonderful thing. A little bit of research in only a few minutes.


	6. Chapter Six: Bastogne

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Six: Bastogne**

The air outside was crisp and somewhat cold but Zussman was wrapped well, and he could smell Spring in the air. He was lying on his side, something Doctor Harris had insisted on. He'd explained that it was to relax the skin around his incision. He'd seen the doctor hand a thick stack of papers over to the medic in the back of the truck with him. His file, he guessed. It wasn't every day that Army doctors dealt with concentration camp survivors, though he suspected it was becoming more common as the camps kept being found.

Zussman had very few possessions to go with him. He had his dog tags. (Apparently the other POWs in Bad Orb had found the discarded tags in the snow.) He still had the St. Michael medal he'd won from Aiello, and his two letters from Daniels. He didn't have a uniform, just German pajamas from the infirmary. His tattered uniform and great coat had probably been burned, as they were infested with lice. All his other things he would've had in the tent with the others was probably sent home after he was captured.

Still, he'd learned how little he needed in Berga. He had needed to be warm. His thin blanket and tattered uniform only went so far but they were better than nothing. He needed shelter. The barracks were leaky, filthy, and over-crowded. But the building cut some of the wind, some of the cold, and, most of the time, kept some separation between them and the Germans. He had needed food and water. The 'food,' if one could call it that, he got in Berga was not sufficient, in the long run, for life. The Nazis knew that. So many men had died from malnutrition or sickness brought on by a weakened immune system due to that malnutrition. Or from the cold, the dust, the cruelty of the Nazis. And it was not lost on Zussman that he'd been incredibly close to being counted among them.

Actually, he only had vague, fuzzy memories of being picked out with a few others to be shot, and then being found before he could be shot. He remembered being bundled up as much as possible by one of the medics. The medic must have led him outside because he didn't remember getting out of the camp. He remembered Metz telling a guard to wait ten minutes then shoot. He remembered the others marching away. He remembered the shots and trying to count them. He moved closer to the guard. He knew he was as good as dead already. He told the guard to let them go. But the shots rang out and he was thrown to the ground. One more shot and he was supposed to be dead.

Then he remembered Daniels and Pierson, as if in a dream. Then nothing until he woke up in Bad Orb in a bed with his friends nearby. He knew he wasn't well now, but he had been dying before. He'd take weak and tired and hungry and lonely over dying in Berga.

And now he was even leaving Germany. He wanted to be awake when he crossed the Rhine but he just couldn't manage it. He couldn't see much anyway, out the back of the truck. He slept most of the way. When he woke again, the truck was slowing to a stop. His stretcher was lifted out, and he was carried into a large tent. The cot he ended up on wasn't as nice as the bed in Bad Orb but it was a step up from the wooden bunks of Berga. He hoped he'd get some food soon but fell asleep again despite his growling stomach and the noisier environment.

The smell of warm food woke him up. He found a nurse and an orderly standing beside his cot. The orderly helped him sit up, and the nurse handed him a bowl of mashed potatoes with gravy. The potatoes were a bit runny but he expected that these days. Soft, liquidy foods. That's where they were starting. He focused hard on not shoveling those potatoes in but to take measured bites and revel in the flavors. There were even little bits of chicken in the gravy. And potatoes were filling. By the time he'd finished the bowl, he actually felt full. He hadn't felt full for months. It was a nice feeling.

The nurse handed him two pills and helped him wash them down with a cup of water, then the orderly helped him lay back down. The nurse took something from her pocket. "This came for you," she said and she handed it to him.

"Thank you," Zussman told her. She felt his forehead before she stood and walked away.

The letter was from Daniels. He explained why he hadn't written before. They'd been in a big battle, a maneuver to trap a lot of Germans. Another large camp was found and liberated by the British. Berga was a small camp but he had spoken with enough of the civilians to know the whole thing was bigger, and even worse than he could imagine. But his gut told him it was enormous, maybe the biggest crime in history. And he had been a victim of it.

He thought of some of the other POWs he knew. Some had died and some had not. He remembered the earlier ones to die, remembered helping to bury them. Everything got fuzzier toward the end of this stay in Berga. He felt like he wasn't supposed to be a victim of it. He was a POW. The Geneva Conventions meant he shouldn't have been treated that way. But then he felt guilty. None of the German's victims deserved what they had gotten.

Zussman tucked the letter under his pillow with his others. He looked at all the other patients he could see from his perspective as he lay on his side. Some were missing limbs or had bandages around their heads. Nurses and orderlies moved between them. Doctor's checked charts. There was a general bustle. He heard English, no German. But he still felt lonely.

* * *

By the time the sun set, they were just about where they had started the search for Zussman in earnest. The bridge at Remagen. A lot of traffic was going in both directions and they'd have to wait their turn. They pulled off the road near a line of tents and Pierson went looking for the commanding officer.

Daniels waited in the jeep and took out the letter he was writing to Hazel. She wasn't happy but had accepted his reasons for not coming home earlier. Still, he wanted to keep her updated, seeing as he could have been home months ago. So he wrote her about finding Zussman and the battle they'd just been through. He didn't write the details of the battle. It would only cause her worry more. She didn't need that.

Aiello left to try and find some grub in the camp and Stiles got out of the jeep to take pictures of the long line of refugees leaving Germany for France. Most were forced-labor workers. They hadn't had good conditions but it hadn't been like the concentration camps or even Berga. Some were French POWs heading home now that they were free.

Pierson and Aiello returned at the same time. Pierson had found them a tent, no cots. At least it was out of the elements. Aiello said he'd found dinner and to follow him back to it. So Daniels folded his letter and put it away for later. They'd be in Bastogne tomorrow and surprise Zussman.

* * *

Zussman started to feel cold an hour or so after his last meal. He tucked the blanket around himself as tight as he could manage, but he just kept shivering. One of the nurses noticed and brought another blanket. A little warmer, he was able to sleep.

But not for long. The chill just wouldn't leave him, and that little tickle in the back of his throat got more insistent. He coughed and it hurt his chest as well as his stomach. Once he started coughing, he found it hard to stop. Each cough left him needing to breathe and each inhale set up another cough. It scared him. He'd seen men die from a cough after working in the tunnels.

The coughing caught the attention of an orderly, who got the attention of a doctor. A nurse brought him some water, and he was able to take a few breaths. The doctor listened to his chest with his stethoscope, and the nurse took his temperature. Zussman shivered and tried to breathe shallow so he wouldn't start coughing again.

"Your chart says you breathed in a lot of dust during your captivity," the doctor said. "My first thought is that's what's irritating your lungs. But with your weakened immune system, we just can't' be too careful." He turned to the nurse. "We need a chest x-ray." He turned back to Zussman. "We're going to take care of you, Private."

Pneumonia. Guys had died from pneumonia. Zussman wanted to tell him but the doctor left. Some orderlies came and loaded him on a stretcher. Without the blankets, he was freezing. He just had a moment to reach under his pillow and grab his letters.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back on his cot, under his blankets. His chest felt tight on his left side and it was harder to breathe without coughing. After a few minutes he couldn't stop coughing. When he saw blood on the pillow, he felt like it was all for naught.

He was too tried, too cold, and the coughing kept him from sleeping. Sometime later, the doctor returned, with a couple nurses and orderlies. For a moment, Zussman thought he saw Acevedo with them. "Pneumonia," he choked out. "Dying."

"I wish you wouldn't," the doctor said. Zussman felt a prick in his arm. "But you're right about the pneumonia. You a med student back home?"

Zussman coughed. "Seen it," he said between gasps. "Millstone."

"I'm guessing they didn't keep you at the Ritz," the doctor joked. "I'm gonna bet you didn't have sulfonamides there."

"Medics," Zussman told him. "No meds."

"Well, we've got meds, doctors, nurses, x-rays, surgeons." The doctor smiles. "We got you covered. I'm gonna put you on oxygen and we're going to prop you up. Try to take deep breaths. I know it's hard. Don't try to talk. That will set you coughing again." He turned to the others. "Get some blankets and pillows to prop him up. Wrap him up good, too." He snapped a mask over Zussman's head and settled it over his mouth and nose.

Zussman was so tired. He wanted to sleep so bad. But he was afraid he'd never wake up. He clutched his letters under the blankets. He was still cold but he knew now it wasn't the air that was cold. The cold was in him.

He was still awake by morning, but he couldn't respond to the doctor when he asked how he felt. He was back at Berga and Acevedo was trying to get the guards to let him stay back from working today.

* * *

They made it to Bastogne by eleven in the morning. Daniels went to the field hospital while Pierson checked in with the commanding officer. He was stopped at the door to the tent. "I'm looking for a friend of mine," Daniels told the soldier guarding the door. "Private Robert Zussman. Really skinny guy. Came from Bad Orb yesterday."

"Let me check," the soldier told him. He disappeared into the tent. A few minutes later, a tired-looking doctor approached.

"Ah, Daniels," he said, looking at the name on Red's uniform. "You wrote his letters."

Daniels felt more anxious now. "Yes, can I see him?"

"I'm afraid not," the doctor said. "He's no longer here."

That didn't seem right. Daniels started to panic. The doctor knew about the letters, but what did he mean that Zuss was no longer here?

The doctor didn't wait for his question. "He's on his way to Paris. He took a turn for the worst last night. He's got a nasty case of pneumonia. They can do more for him in a traditional hospital."

Daniels' panic subsided about half-way. Zuss was alive, just not here. But he was very, very sick. He left in a daze. Pneumonia in an otherwise healthy person was dangerous. Zuss was nowhere near healthy. They still might lose him.

* * *

The commanding officer held up a finger as he finished his conversation on the radio. Pierson stayed at attention while he waited.

Finally, the radio conversation was over and the officer turned to him. "Sergeant Pierson, reporting, sir."

"Pierson?" the officer looked down at his desk. "Well, that was fast."

"Sir?" Pierson was confused.

"New orders just came from you CO, Sergeant. You and your men are off to Paris." He lifted a few pages of paper off his desk and pulled out two from under the stack. He handed those to Pierson. "You may want to grab some grub before you go. Dismissed."

Pierson saluted then turned and walked out, still very confused. He found a dour-faced Daniels back at the jeep. "What's wrong?"

"Pneumonia," Daniels replied. "They moved him to Paris this morning."

Aiello and Stiles both slumped against the vehicle. "Damn," Aiello cursed. "Hasn't he had enough?"

"Well, that clears up these orders," Pierson said, holding them up. "Seems Col. Davis is still keeping tabs on our boy. We're headed to Paris, too."

* * *

Doctor Peter Zelewsky worked with other US Army doctors and nurses but also French medical staff at this large hospital in Paris. Presently, he and Dr. La Pierre were looking at chest x-rays for a very thin former POW who had arrived by ambulance that morning. Zelewsky opened the soldier's chart and started to read. La Pierre spoke English well enough to follow. "Patient initially presented severely malnurished and dehydrated with some breathing difficulties. Possible silicosis. Seems he'd been forced to work in some tunnels with no protective suits or mask and inhaled dust from the surrounding rocks. So how much of that"—He pointed to the x-ray—"is the dust he was inhaling, and how much is this pneumonia that is trying to kill him?"

"Well, the part medicines won't touch is the dust," La Pierre replied in his thick-accented but very precise English.

"Patient's file said he weight one eighty five before his capture."

"This is pounds, yes?" La Pierre asked.

Zelewsky nodded. "Looks like less than one hundred now."

"His chart did say severe malnutrition," La Pierre pointed out.

"Yeah, so how is he gonna fight this infection? He was in terrible shape before that hit. Recently had surgery for a ruptured spleen!"

La Pierre whistled. "That is a lot for one starved man to deal with."

Zelewsky nodded as he tapped his pen against the charts. "Nazis did that to him. I don't like to let them win."

La Pierre smiled conspiratorially. "_Baise les Boshes!_" He switched back to English. "It is not going to be easy."

"No, it isn't," Zelewsky agreed. "We'll give him his own room, keep him isolated. Mask and gloves for everyone who enters. Fluids for support. We'll tube-feed him if it comes to that, but we need to get some kind of food in him. Sulfonamides, oxygen, and rest."

"And prayer, _mon ami,_" La Pierre added. "He will need it."

Zelewsky checked the file again to see which chaplain to call. He sighed. "He's Jewish." He snapped the file closed again. "Fucking Nazis!"

* * *

By the time they got to the hospital, Zussman was set up in his own room with a nurse present at all times. Only one of them could go in at a time so Daniels went first. Again, he had to wear a mask and gloves, but at least he didn't have to stand so far away.

Zussman didn't seem to notice when he went into the room. Daniels could hear him breathing and it sounded harsh. There was a chair to the left of the bed, so he sat down and took one of Zussman's hands in his gloved one.

"Zuss," he said, squeezing the latter's hand gently. "It's me, Red. I probably look funny in this mask but it's really me. We're all here: Pierson, Aiello, Stiles and me. And we're not going to leave this time. Col. Davis ordered us here with you."

Zuss's hand squeezed back every so lightly, and he turned his head to look at Daniels. He started to say something but Daniels put a hand on his arm to stop him. The doctor's didn't want him talking under the oxygen mask as it might start him coughing.

"You don't have to say anything. Just breathe." Then Daniels just talked to him about the weather outside—It was finally looking like Spring was there to stay—and the battle over the Ruhr Pocket, the joke Aiello told last week. Anything to give Zussman a voice he could hang on to.

At one point, Zuss's eyes started to close. He tried to keep them open but it was no use. Daniels turned to the nurse who stepped forward and check Zussman. She smiled. "We've been trying to get him to rest," she whispered. "He's asleep."


	7. Chapter Seven: Paris and Chaims

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Seven: Paris…and Chaims**

Being in Paris had its perks, Aiello decided. Women being one of them. But besides beautiful, thankful women, there were restaurants and cafes, newspapers, even the Louvre was open and free for GIs. Given, most of the reading material was in French but the Stars and Stripes was in English, and he found a small bookstore with books in English. He bought a few. Zuss was gonna be sick for a while yet, so they needed stuff to read to him.

Pierson spent most of his time away. Said he was looking for any word on the rest of the Berga POWs. He was as dead set on finding them as Daniels had been on finding Zuss. Stiles left a lot to take pictures. Paris had a lot of stuff worthy of pictures, like the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame. There was a lot of history in the city. It was very different from New York.

Aiello split his time with Daniels. One would bring the other back some food. It was a good pattern so far. Doctors assured them Zuss was better today. He paid more attention when he was awake, so that was something. Technically, they were assigned to temporary duty with the Medical Corps here. But so far, they hadn't been needed. They had some bunks with the orderlies to sleep in. It was in a building next to the hospital. The other soldiers there hadn't seen combat but they had seen the casualties of it. And Germany still hadn't surrendered. But here in France, the atmosphere was cleaner in a way. Freedom, Aiello supposed. It was in the air.

Aiello stopped in a little cafe and bought a couple pastries. It was nearly time to change spots with Daniels. He entered the hospital and found Daniels sitting out in the hall. He yawned and Aiello handed him a pastry.

"They're working on him in there."

"I figured," Aiello said, sitting down beside Daniels. "No worse, I hope."

"No, but not much better. And he's back to eating soup."

Aiello sighed. "He's gonna be so sick of soup by the time he gets home."

"Yeah," Daniels agreed. He took a bite of his pastry. "He just keeps getting knocked down. What's gonna hit him next?"

"Maybe this is it," Aiello told him. "The last thing. Maybe he's gonna get through this then just get better. We gotta think the best, you know."

Daniels shook his head. "You're right. He's gotten through everything else. He got stabbed. He got through that."

Aiello nodded. "Exactly, and he got through the surgery, not to mention that camp. He's got doctors and nurses now, medicines and equipment. He's gonna make it here, too." He was telling himself as much as Daniels. He was worried, too, and had to remind himself that thinking the worse wouldn't help anything. "It's so different here," he said, changing the subject. "The buildings are still here, for one. But the people are happy. So different than Germany."

"Winners instead of losers." Daniels took another bite. "But the regular German people didn't see—or didn't want to see—what the Nazis were doing. The French people here were victims, too."

Aiello pulled the novel from his pocket. "I found a little book shop with English books. We can read it to him."

Daniels took it and read the blurb on the back. "Good idea. I was running out of things to talk about." He handed it back.

Aiello saw that Daniels had finished his pastry. "You should get some sleep. I'll keep him company."

Daniels nodded toward the door. "After they finish."

* * *

Dr. Zelewsky noted the temperature on the patient's chart. 102 F. That was new. He'd presented with chills but no fever. Could be a good sign of his body fighting the infection. But it still warranted a close watch. This patient was not out of the woods.

He was in pitiful condition. Even without knowing the POW camp he'd been in, Zelewsky could understand that it had violated the Geneva and Hague Conventions. He looked like a concentration camp survivor. Zelewsky hadn't seen any camps, but he'd seen pictures. He didn't envy the medical personal trying to keep those poor thousands alive.

He sighed. At least he only had one. He ordered another dose of sulfonamides and left the room. Two soldiers were waiting in the hall. He wasn't surprised. He'd seen the four of them arrive. Apparently, Zussman was part of their squad.

The corporal stood up. "How is he?"

"Not great but he's obviously a fighter, so I wouldn't count him out yet." Zelewsky didn't want to give them false hope nor did he want to dash what hope they had.

"Can we see him now?" the other asked.

"In a bit," the doctor replied. "The nurses are changing bandages, bathing him and the like. When they're done. Keep him quiet though. When he gets coughing, it's hard for him to stop."

"Got a book to read," the private said.

"That'll work." Zelewsky was curious. "How did you manage to find this one prisoner in all of Germany who was from your own squad?"

"We were looking for him," the corporal, Daniels, said as he sat down. "After Remagen, we disobeyed orders and took off looking. Found the first POW camp he'd been in. They told us about Berga."

"Most of the prisoners were gone," Private Aiello added. "Only found dead—in the camp. We followed tracks and found some that were being shot. Daniels shot the bastard doing the shooting them just before he killed the last one."

Zelewsky smiled. "And he happened to be your guy."

"Yeah," Daniels said. "I'm not sure what I would have done if I'd been too late. Still feel bad about the other four."

"Well, he's lucky you were disobeying orders after Remagen." Zelewsky wondered how much they knew of Zussman's internment. "He knew he had pneumonia. Was he a medic?"

Daniels shook his head. "No. He probably saw it in the camp. They were forced to work in tunnels, cleaning up debris after the Germans dynamited it. They had to breathe in the dust."

Zelewsky nodded. "He did mention a name. Several others died then?"

"Plenty," Aiello told him. "When we got to the camp, there were at least fifteen bodies."

Zelewsky was feeling uneasy. "These were POWs?"

"Three hundred and fifty of them," Daniels replied.

That shouldn't have happened. Well, everything the Nazis had done shouldn't have happened, but there were international laws about prisoners of war. Germany had signed the Geneva Conventions. Besides, the allies treated their German POWs well because they expected they were treating the Allied prisoners the same. This was a war crime.

His face must have shown his feelings because Aiello said something. "Yeah, it was wrong. But shouldn't we be just as horrified by all the other innocent men, women, and children they did the same or worse to? They'd crossed so many lines, they probably didn't give a rat's ass about this one."

That was perspective. Well, he couldn't do anything for those other victims. "I will do everything I can to help your friend."

"Thank you, Doctor." Daniels yawned after that.

Behind him, Zelewsky heard the nurses finishing up. "I'm guessing you're up, Private Aiello."

The nurses left with their cart, and Aiello put on his mask, took the book from his pocket, and entered the room.

Daniels stood and offered his hand to Zelewsky, who shook it then walked with him to the end of the hall. They went different ways. Zelewsky went to find La Pierre while Daniels, presumably, went somewhere to sleep for a few hours.

* * *

Zussman slept off and on for the rest of the day. When he was awake, he was aware of the difficulty in breathing. When he was asleep, the difficulty infiltrated his dreams. Perhaps he was swimming but being pulled under by the current. Or he was working, but the dust was so thick and constant that he couldn't see his friends nor get out of the tunnels for a clean breath.

When he was awake, he was aware that one of his friends was with him. But he was confused. Sometimes, it looked like Aiello or Daniels, like he was in a real hospital with white walls and real mattresses. Other times, it looked like Acevedo or another of the medics in the dark, filthy barracks in Berga.

Presently he saw Aiello's eyes above the face mask, heard his voice as he read a book. Zussman tried to focus on the words of the book but it was hard, so he just held on to the voice. Just hearing Aiello's voice made Zussman want to fight for the next breath. He was not alone.

* * *

Pierson felt bad leaving Paris with Zussman still in bad condition, but he wasn't able to find any information on Berga this far behind the lines. If the Germans were trying to keep their prisoners from being liberated, they had to be taking them deeper beyond those lines, west of the Russian but east of the other Allies. That space was closing fast, so every day was a chance they—and thousands of others—would be found.

So he and Stiles had left with the jeep the day before and drove back into Germany. They went from one encampment of Allied soldiers to another, asking about survivors of death marches, especially those who were POWs. They got a lot of incredulous responses. No Allied prisoners would be in death marches. Maybe Russians. Well, that meant they hadn't heard of the Berga POWs, so they moved on.

Two days after they left Paris, they got a lead. A corporal had heard from a friend in another company that a cousin in the armored division had found a dozen or more emaciated POWs. Pierson got names and specific divisions and platoon information. And finally, they found themselves in Chaims, Germany at 1330 in the afternoon.

It took a little convincing, but they were finally allowed into the hospital that was purportedly treating the former prisoners. Pierson asked for Acevedo, the one with the record, and the only name he knew of the prisoners that hadn't died before they had found Zussman. A nurse led them up a flight of stairs into a long room with beds. On each bed was an incredibly thin soldier, some with dog tags, some without.

Pierson asked if there was an Acevedo there. One of the starved men raised a hand. "Who's asking?"

Pierson and Stiles walked past the other patients and came to the foot of Acevedo's bed. "I'm Sergeant Pierson, of the Bloody First."

Acevedo squinted at him then pointed to his shoulder. Pierson turned to show him the patch on his left shoulder. "I think I've heard of you," Acevedo said. "Can't say any of it was good."

Pierson laughed. "I don't doubt it. Well, things have changed."

"If you're looking for Zussman," Acevedo said, not without a hint of sadness, "he's not here."

"Oh, I know." Pierson felt some pride to say that. "We found him just outside the camp, earlier this month."

"I'm sorry. We did what we could for him."

They didn't get it. "Oh, he's alive last I checked."

That surprised Acevedo and the others within earshot. "What? They were going to shoot him and four others."

Pierson let his pride go. "They were shooting them. Three were shot before we got close. We heard the shots. The fourth was shot in the back as he tried to run. Daniels popped the German just before he shot number five. And five was Zussman."

Acevedo smiled. "Daniels? So he's not dead either?"

Pierson put his hands on the footboard of Acevedo's bed and leaned forward. "No, but I can see why Zuss wouldn't thought he was. He was badly injured when Zuss was captured. He recovered hell-bent on finding Zussman."

"Which he did," another prisoner commented. "Small world."

"Yeah," Stiles said. "We missed the rest of you by minutes it would seem."

The one on the other side of Acevedo spoke up. "Ten minutes or so. Guard was told to wait ten minutes then shoot."

Acevedo brought their attention back. "How is he?"

Pierson sighed, and looked around at their faces, their bodies. "Worse than you."

"But you found him weeks ago," left-side said.

Pierson nodded. "True, but he was not in a good state when we found him."

"No, he wasn't," Acevedo confirmed.

"We got him cleaned up, got some soup into him. He was more lucid but that was about it. Slept a lot, still incredibly thin. A few days later, he doesn't wake up. His spleen had ruptured, causing internal bleeding and he was whisked off to surgery." Acevedo groaned. Pierson continued. "Started to heal from that and now he's fighting pneumonia."

Right-side whistled. "Man, can't catch a break."

"You weren't listening." Acevedo was talking to right-side but he was looking right at Pierson. "His own squad found him just before a bullet to the brain. That's one hell of break."

Pierson nodded. "Yes, it is. And he's gonna make it. He's in a good hospital in Paris with Daniels and Aiello by his side. I believe he'll get through this. It's just going to take him a while."

Left-side sighed. "Just like the rest of us."

Acevedo relaxed into this mattress. "I'm glad. Zuss was dying, you know. He wouldn't have made it two miles on that march. A lot of us didn't make it here."

Person lowered his voice. "I figured. Three hundred and fifty were transferred."

"One seventy," Acevedo whispered. Then he spoke up. "We're not supposed to talk about it."

That hit Pierson hard. One, that Zussman had been dying when they found him. Two, that so many were lost even after they left the camp. And three, that they'd been ordered not to tell anyone. He lowered his voice further. "He said you had a record."

Acevedo nodded. "We had to sign a document." He eyed the chair between his bed and the patient to his right.

Pierson took the seat and Acevedo produced a worn diary. Pierson read it quickly, skimming where he could. The day by day of their struggles made it real so that he could imagine Zussman living that life. He was saddened by the losses, angered by the Germans' cruelties, and surprised by the prisoners' contact with the underground. He noted they got Red Cross packages twice, and letters from home on at least one occasion.

"You got letters," Pierson whispered, handing the diary back. "Did Zussman get any? He got real upset when we mentioned letters."

Acevedo leaned closer. "He got one," he said in a whisper. "Metz didn't let Zuss have his, or any of the Red Cross packages. He burned Zussman's letter right in front of him.

Pierson through he knew from what Zussman had said, but he asked anyway. "Why? Why did he treat Zussman differently?

Acevedo explained. "Zussman is a Jew, and he called Metz a Nazi piece of shit. Said 'Fuck you' to his face." He relaxed again. "Some of us saved a bite or two of our share of the packages. Once lights were out, I gave them to him. Put those bits in his hand there on his bunk. We could only help him in small ways like that."

"We learned fast." Pierson turned around to hear the other guy's whispers. "Day one. After work, we're set to march back to barracks. Guard comes up to Zussman and plants the butt of his rifle in Zuss's gut on Metz's orders. Zuss goes down. Guy behind him tries to help him back up. Guard pushes that guy back, and Metz kicks Zussman in the face. Another protests, they hit Zussman again."

That angered Pierson. A hand on his arm turned him back to Acevedo. "Metz wanted to break his spirit before he killed Zussman. Sometimes Zuss couldn't make it back with the column after his beating. He had to make it back under his own power, you see. But he always did. Until that letter. That's what finally broke him. That's when he started to die." He leaned closer. "So I'm glad you found him when you did. Even if the other four didn't make it. Metz promised Zussman he wouldn't leave that camp alive. You proved him wrong. And I'm glad he has you."

Person suddenly wanted to get back to Paris. "I'm glad I get to go back and tell him I found you."

Acevedo smiled and stopped whispering. "Do you have a paper and pen? I think I'd like to write Zuss a letter."

Stiles stepped closer. He pulled a pad from his pocket along with a pen. Acevedo looked him over. "Glasses, camera. You must be Stiles."

"That I am," Stiles replied. He leaned in close as he handed over the paper and pen. "And you know, someday, they're not going to care about that document you had to sign."

"Someday," Acevedo repeated.

Pierson stood. "We'll be back in the morning for that letter." He turned to leave.

"It was nice to meet you both," Acevedo said.

"Likewise," Pierson said. He decided he was okay with waiting until morning to head back to Paris. That night he sent a report to Col. Davis telling him one hundred and seventy had been found alive and asked about Zussman's condition. Davis was still keeping tabs on him.

He got his response two hours later. Davis was diplomatic, perhaps having heard of the document the former POWs had had to sign. He acknowledged the liberated prisoners and told him that Zussman was still fighting pneumonia though his condition had improved. It was good news, and when they climbed back in the jeep the next morning, he felt good to be bringing Zuss back a letter from his other friends.


	8. Chapter Eight: Paris, Part I

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Eight: Paris, Part I**

Daniels waited for the nurses to finish with Zussman. He had the morning shift today. When he entered the room, Zussman was sleeping. He did that a lot, and quite frankly, Daniels welcomed it. It wasn't that he didn't want Zussman's company. It was more that Zuss was somewhat at ease when he was asleep. He didn't have to try to breathe. His body just did its best in that regard, and if it couldn't, it woke him up. When he was awake, his breathing was very labored, and Daniels could tell Zussman was trying not to cough.

The nurse on duty in the room smiled. "Fever's lower today. Might just break."

That was good news. If his fever broke, it could mean the pneumonia was going away. Beside him, Zussman jerked awake. Daniels supposed that was one downside to sleeping. Zussman wasn't having good dreams from the look of things.

"Morning," Daniels offered. "Feeling any better?"

Zussman turned his head to look at him. His eyes still looked dazed. He held up a hand with his thumb and forefinger close together. A little. Well, a little better was better than worse.

"I ran into Rousseau yesterday," he told Zuss. "Can you believe it? We went to a cafe for coffee and to catch up. She's real happy the Germans are out of France and losing the war, but kind of frustrated with politics right now as France tries to set up a new government. She asked about you."

Zussman's hand went to his chest. He was listening.

"Yes, you." Daniels laughed a little. "She called us the 'train wreckers.' Asked how you were doing. I sugar-coated it."

Zussman nodded. He was okay with that.

"She's engaged, by the way," Daniels said, keeping up the small talk. "Fellow resistance fighter. Lost his wife in the occupation. So they have that in common."

"Paris?" Zuss whispered.

Well, maybe no one had told him, or he was too confused when they did. "Yeah, we're in Paris. Looks a lot different than last time we were here. People are a lot happier, for one. You've been here four days now."

Daniels told him about the weather, the nearby shops, really anything he could think of to fill the time. Zussman fell asleep again before noon. Aiello took over then, and Daniels was free to find some lunch and to seek out new news, things he could share with Zussman later.

He returned in the afternoon and was surprised to meet Pierson and Stiles in the hall as they headed toward Zussman's room.

* * *

Aiello put the book away and left when the nurses came with Zussman's soup. Zussman wanted more than soup but was also afraid he'd lose anything he ate as his stomach was still somewhat upset. And he was wearing this oxygen mask to breathe easier. It would have been really messy if he vomited in the mask. But the soup stayed down and he felt sated for now. That feeling never lasted long.

He watched the nurse leave and was surprised to see Pierson, Stiles, and Daniels all standing in the doorway. He remembered seeing Daniels regularly by his bed, but he didn't remember seeing the others here in Paris.

Pierson held out a folded bit of paper. He wasn't wearing a mask so he didn't come in. Aiello retrieved the paper. "We got something that may help you feel a bit better," Pierson said.

Aiello returned to his bedside and handed him the paper. Zussman unfolded it. There were three pages. It was a letter. The letter itself was relatively short. It told about the march from Berga and the libertation of the other POWs. It said that Metz had abandoned his post, riding away on a bicycle. The rest was signatures and well wishes from Acevedo, Gouldin, and all the other survivors.

Zussman looked up at Pierson. 'You found them?" he asked, risking a coughing fit that, thankfully, didn't come.

"Well, we didn't liberate them," Pierson explained, "but we did find them the day after, in a hospital in Chaims, Germany."

Zussman tried to remember the names that weren't there, the faces of the men he'd known in the camp. He wanted to count the names but there were so many. "How many?"

"A hundred and seventy," Pierson replied.

Out of three hundred and fifty! He was too tired to do the math but that was more than he thought. It was less than half. One fifty would be half of three hundred. Twenty-five more for the fifty. So one seventy-five would be half. That meant one hundred and eighty had died. It hurt to even imagine it. But he'd seen a lot of them die. He'd lost count, had his own issues to worry about.

His anguish must have shown. Daniels spoke up from the doorway. "Concentrate on the ones that made it. For now." He turned to Pierson. "How were they?"

"Way too thin," Pierson replied. "Acevedo's diary said he lost half his body weight. But most were able to sit up, carry a conversation. They signed that letter."

Better than him. He couldn't sit up on his own. He could hardly speak three words without coughing deep in his lungs. He could barely breathe. Hell, he couldn't think straight half the time. He looked back through the names, recognizing some of the men that he'd gotten to know fairly well, like Acevedo. He found seven.

Awhile later, Daniels was sitting in the chair and the others had left. Zussman looked at his letter again. Then he handed it to Daniels to read. When he was done reading, Daniels ran a hand over his face. "They were my squad, too," Zussman whispered to him. That was too much and he began to cough, which got the nurse up from her chair.

Once he could breathe again, Daniels put a hand on his arm. "I get that," Daniels said. "You guys went through that together, life and death. I don't think Pierson, Stiles, Aiello or I can ever even understand or imagine everything that happened to you there." He held up the letter. "These guys can."

Zussman understood that. He couldn't fully grasp what that young man had experienced in Auschwitz. He could get closer than most other soldiers, but Berga had already seemed like hell to him. To that young man, it was better. Better. And still, he probably died on that march. The POWs had seen hundreds of bodies of the civilians who'd been marched out before them.

But Daniels had had a point. There were one hundred seventy men alive who had shared his hell, lying in a hospital in Chaims. They were tired, hungry, but alive. And Zussman wanted to be with them in that. He wanted to stay alive. Thinking too much on the dead wouldn't help.

* * *

Now that there were four of them again, the medical staff put them to work. There was always one with Zussman, but the others ran errands, did manual labor, and helped provide security when necessary. That was mostly drunk GIs getting into trouble, and Pierson was really good at straightening them out. Sometimes they just helped other patients by reading letters or helping them write them.

Seeing some of the other prisoners struck Stiles with just how lucky the four of them had been. True, Daniels had nearly died after Zussman was captured, but he recovered and still had all his body parts. There were guys here without a leg, or an arm, or blinded for the rest of their lives. The four of them were still walking and talking.

Their fifth was still struggling, and Stiles remembered he'd been stabbed once before. Still, he'd come back early and fought just as well as the rest of them. Stiles hoped he'd come back from this, too, someday.

The fever had broken on the 27th, so he was on the mend, which was great. But what he'd seen and been through would haunt him for a long time yet, even after his body finally healed. Hell, Stiles still had nightmares about the camps they'd seen: Ohrdruff, Berga, Buchenwald. They gave him the images. The newspapers and newsreels gave him the scale. Camp after camp was being found. Hundreds of thousands of survivors, millions of dead. Medical experiments done on conscious prisoners. Men, women, and children maimed. Men killed so tattooed skin could be made into lampshades.

It was like a horror novel. If he'd read it, Stiles would have dismissed it as over-the-top and unrealistic. But he'd seen enough to know that it _had_ happened. The Nazis had made these horrors real. He had the photographs to prove it. He and others. The world was going to know this was real, and Germany was going to have to answer for it. Somehow. Somehow more than losing the war.

Pierson had shared with Stiles what the Berga survivors had said about Zussman and Metz that night in Chaims. Zussman had said as much about why Metz had treated him differently, but to hear from the others how he was beaten every day and punished if anyone helped him openly, well, that had made it more real. To know he had to stand out in the cold while the others enjoyed their Red Cross packages, or that Metz had burned his mother's letter, well, it just seemed so needlessly cruel on top of what Berga already was. So many had died even without that singular treatment.

Stiles was roused from these thoughts when a soldier he didn't recognize stopped in the doorway. "Got a letter for a Private Zussman."

Zussman was still asleep, and he couldn't get out of bed to get it, so Stiles met the soldier at the door. "I'll take it for him."

The soldier handed over the letter and left, quickly. Probably thought Zussman was contagious or something, especially since Stiles was wearing a mask over his nose and mouth, too. As he walked back to his chair, he looked at the return address. It was from a Mr. and Mrs. Robert Zussman, Sr. Stiles smiled. So, Zuss was a junior.

When Zussman woke a half-hour later, Stiles handed him his letter and stepped out of the room. He didn't go far, just out into the hallway. But he figured Zuss needed some semi-privacy. (The nurse was still in there, after all.) A letter from his mother had broken him. Maybe this one would save him.

* * *

April 24, 1945

Our dear son,

Robbie, we were so worried! Every day we feared a car would stop in front of the building and two soldiers would come knocking on our door to tell us we lost you. We'd seen it happen to the Goodsons and the Bakers down the street.

Then we got news of your capture. It wasn't good news, but you were alive so we could manage. Darla Johnson's young husband had been captured a year before. She said he was treated well and out of the fighting. She wanted him home but she didn't have to worry about that car. And she could write him letters and he could write her back.

I wrote you letters, Robbie. But I didn't get any back. Did they realize you are Jewish? Did they keep my letters from you because of that? They hate us so much!

Then I got a letter from Colonel Davis. He said you had been liberated. He said your health had been affected. Robbie, are you okay? Please, please, write to me and let me know you're doing better. Robbie, please come home soon. Your father and I will take care of you. Oh, my baby boy, my heart hurts knowing you hurt. I wish I could kiss away all your hurts like I could when you were just a small child.

I fear we are now just a small family of three, that your aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins are all lost. You're all we have left. But as long as we have you, we'll be okay. You are the world to us. We pray for you every day. Every day. When you come home, I will hug you for a year, at least.

Your father thinks of you often, wonders about your battles, the long nights in hostile country. But he goes to work. So many of his coworkers have sons in the military. Some even have daughters in the war. They share what they know with each other. I have the synagogue. We mothers share our worries and prayers.

We do our part at home, still. We save our tin cans and made do with our ration cards. I help out at the Redd Cross, putting packages together. We get the paper every day. We know we're winning the war in Europe. We read the stories of the camps. We knew there were anti-Semites in Germany. We jumped at the chance to come here to America. We could see that the Nazis were becoming more popular. But we never dreamed in our worst nightmares that Germany would go so far as to try and murder all the Jews in Europe.

It used to be a beautiful country. I used to think that someday, after the Nazis were gone, we'd go back and visit family, take you to meet them. Now I know I will never again step a foot on German soil.

I'm sorry for rambling. I should try to cheer you up. Marie Hoffman has asked about you several times, you know. She remembered you from high school. I showed her your picture. How handsome you looked in your uniform! You will always be the most handsome young man I have ever seen. Your room is just as you left it, waiting for you to come home. I'll make your favorite meal when you get home. I just want you home. I want you well to get well, Robbie. Get well and come home to me.

If could can't do that right away, please write me back.

With more love than I can ever express,  
Your mother

* * *

Zussman turned away toward the wall and read it again. He could hear her voice, her accent even as he read her words. He could see her face, the stains on the paper where her tears had fallen. He could see his father, standing strong behind her with his hands on his shoulder while he kissed the top of head.

Tears filled his own eyes. He sniffed, hoping the nurse wouldn't notice. She did. She left her chair and touched him gently on the shoulder until he turned. She slipped the oxygen mask down to his chin and handed him a handkerchief. He turned back and used it. It was a little harder to breathe but he could still catch some of the oxygen coming from the mask. He felt her sitting in the chair behind him. She would keep him safe. So he turned back to the letter and let himself imagine that hug from his mother. He let the tears come.

When he was call cried out, she wiped his tears and replaced the mask. He was so tired. He folded the letter,held it close to his chest, closed his eyes and fell asleep. He dreamed of home.


	9. Chapter Nine: Paris, Part II

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Nine: Paris, Part II**

Doctor Zelensky was happily surprised by the patient's recovery since he received a letter from home two days before. They had taken him for x-rays, and the films showed his lungs were clearing. He was more alert and slept less. He engaged with his friends and the nurses. He still had a long road to recover, especially where his abdomen was concerned, but it seemed he was beating the pneumonia at least. That letter had bolstered him.

Still, the pneumonia wasn't completely gone yet, and his immune system was still wrecked from malnutrition. His abdomen incision was healing albeit slowly. He'd b in this hospital or another for weeks to come. Still, Dr. Zelensky could start to plan for how to help him rebuild his body once the infection left for good. For now, he was going to keep him isolated from the other patient, and keep his visitors in masks to protect him from further infection. But perhaps he was ready to go back to some soft foods and not just soup.

What really surprised him was the arrival of another one hundred and seventy emaciated former POWs. They had been treated in a hospital in Germany since they were liberated. They were in bad shape though most weren't as critical as Zussman had been. These men were in fairly high spirits, though the nurses told him they exhibited distress at times. It was apparently they had been though an ordeal though none of them would talk about it. There were so many of them, they took up two floors. A few were in more dire straits and were moved to double occupancy rooms. They made it clear they did not wish to be alone.

Dr. La Pierre was assigned a couple dozen or so of the patients, still, Zelensky had requested more doctors.

La Pierre looked up from some of his charts. "Do you think these men came from the same camp as Zussman?"

Zelensky shrugged. "Can't be sure if they won't say. Though I do remember seeing a letter with a lot of names in his hands. So it's possible. Maybe Sergeant Pierson knows something. I know he left looking for someone and came back with that letter."

La Pierre closed the charts. "I suppose it doesn't matter so much. It won't change their treatment. It would only satisfy curiosity on our part."

* * *

Aiello picked up a copy of the Stars and Stripes newspaper before he headed back to the hospital. He had picked up supplies from a depot north of Paris. He browsed the headlines as he usually did. But one caught his eye. He turned off the jeep's engine. Adolf Hitler was dead.

The article was short on details, not surprisingly. But it went on to say that the war would have to end soon now that the Führer was dead. Aiello had no trouble agreeing with that sentiment. He put the paper aside and started the engine. He thought Zuss might really like to hear the news.

But when he got back to Paris, he guessed everyone in the city already had the news. The streets were crowded with people, smiling people. Kissing people even. Aiello parked the jeep.

"You heard," one of the soldiers asked as he started unloading the supplies.

Aiello held up the paper. "It's a good day!" he said, heading inside. He bounded up the steps all the way to the fourth floor. Pierson was sitting with Zuss this time. Aiello didn't have a mask so he stopped at the door.

"The paper's a good read this morning," he said, smiling and holding out the paper. Pierson came and got it. He scanned the headlines as he walked back to the bed.

"What's up?" Zussman asked.

"Wait for it," Aiello told him.

"He's dead!" Pierson stopped walking, staring at the paper.

"Who's dead?" Zuss's voice was a little distorted behind the mask. But he was talking and not coughing, and that was something.

Pierson handed him the paper and pointed to the story.

Zuss's eyes went wide. "Hitler is dead?"

Aiello laughed. "They're practically dancing in the streets out there."

"Couldn't have happened to a meaner son of bitch," Pierson said. "Doesn't say how it happened."

"Does it matter?" Aiello asked. "With no _Das Führer_, Germany can't last much longer."

"_Der Führer,_" Zuss corrected. "It's masculine. '_Das_ is for neutral things, like a window."

"Or a chair?" Pierson said.

Zuss shook his head. "_Der Stuhl_. Chair is masculine, too."

"Huh?" Aiello asked. "A chair is an it, just like this door."

Zuss smiled behind the mask. "Door is feminine. I didn't make this up. Everything is either feminine, neuter, or masculine. With people, it's easy. Other stuff, you just have to memorize."

The nurse in the room laughed softly. "My folks are from Czechoslovakia," she said. "Door is plural in Czech."

"One door?" Aiello asked, leaning in to look at her.

"_Dveře jsou otevřené_," she said. "_Jsou_ is the plural form of the verb." She pointed to the floor. "_To je podlaha._ _Je_ is the singular form."

"_Questo e semplicemente pazzo_," Aiello said.

Pierson crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, the only language I know is English and there is only one door and it's an it."

Everyone laughed. Aiello finally waved. "I better get back to work."

* * *

Zussman's condition had improved enough that he was back to eating solid but soft foods. He was able to see his visitor's faces, and even leave the room once in a while, though in a wheel chair. The first time, Stiles had given him a tour of his wing of the hospital. The second time, Daniels had wheeled him out into a small park on the hospital grounds. A nurse tagged along that time. There were other patients out in the park. It felt nice to let the summer sun warm his face. He wasn't completely able to breathe the fresh air as he was still on oxygen. He didn't have a mask over his mouth and nose at least. It was just a tube that had two openings in his nostrils instead. He preferred it as it didn't get in the way when he ate.

He still felt like coughing fifty percent of the time and he was weak. He could barely walk to the toilet, and, even then, he needed assistance. It hurt his abdomen quite a bit so he didn't mind the help. But he was rarely confused, and felt warm enough.

The park had green grass and a little fountain with goldfish in its pool. There were other patients relaxing out there, soldiers in pajamas and robes just like him. Some had visible bandages, some were missing limbs. Life would be very different for them going forward. Besides his emaciated state, Zussman didn't carry any wounds on the outside. Yet he knew his life wasn't going to be like it had been going forward either. He couldn't go back to the life he had left. When he was in Chicago, he was a child. He wouldn't have admitted that then. Bu he was nineteen, just out of high school. He was brash and brave and full of pride. Now he was a man who'd lived through hell under the Nazis. A man completely dependent on others to survive at the moment. Who'd seen his friends die in battle and then in captivity. Who'd felt the weight of anti-Semitism in a way he'd never imagined in his worst nightmare back then. He couldn't see himself as brash anymore. He didn't feel brave. He felt weak and fearful. He had nightmares about Nazis coming into the room, forcing him to go back to work in the dust-filled tunnels. He couldn't stomach the thought of facing one again for real.

But for four months, he had thought the man behind him, his best friend since joining the Army, was dead, and yet he had saved Zussman's life. Aiello, who had openly expressed racist and anti-Semetic beliefs, was a devoted friend. And Pierson. Pierson was a mean bastard who cared only about the mission and not the men under him. He had become a thoughtful commander who disobeyed orders for weeks to find Zussman-and the other Berga POWs. Stiles. Well, maybe Stiles was the one of them to change the least.

Maybe the whole world was going to be different now after what Germany had done.

* * *

Paris was one big party. Germany had finally surrendered and Aiello was enjoying the atmosphere. He wished Zuss could enjoy it with him. He and the other Berga POWs and many of the other wounded were stuck in the hospital. Still, they all got the good news, and Zussman was finally declared free of pneumonia. No more masks and he was able to eat a better variety of soft foods. He still wasn't what Aiello would call happy, but he was _happier_ than before. He remembered too much, had too much to remember. Aiello couldn't blame him. He had the things he'd seen. Zuss had had had to live through those things.

Aiello paid for dinner and left the cafe he'd been sitting in. The French had decent food but they couldn't beat his mom's cooking back home in Queens. Maybe now that the war here was over, he'd go home and see her soon.

The party atmosphere lasted for days in the city, but the hospital went back to same-old-same-old pretty quick. Some patients were sent back to England for treatment or home to the States. Zuss wasn't one of them. He'd probably still be thin when he did go home, but the Army apparently wasn't letting him go without packing on some serious pounds. With the war over now, Aiello worried if Zuss would have to stay after the rest of them were shipped home.

To that end, they got orders to move to Le Havre. All five of them. So at least they'd stay together for a while longer.

* * *

Zussman felt better than he had for weeks when he got the news he was being transferred again. He still couldn't breath as well as he could before the work in Berga, but he could manage without oxygen, and he had more energy. His abdomen still hurt when he moved, and he couldn't walk the length of the hall without wearing himself out. But he could walk that far unaided. And he was allowed to eat small meals of fairly normal food now, like spaghetti and meatballs, bread, and even the occasional sweet pastry. He could drink water, juice, or tea. He had milk for breakfast, but it made it a little harder to breathe without coughing for an hour or so after.

He spent more time in the courtyard park now. He enjoyed the weather, the fresh air, the trickle of water in the fountain at the pool. He was sitting on a bench there while Stiles went to get a newspaper when someone else sat down beside him. It took him a minute to recognize the thin, mustached man beside him.

"It's good to see you," Acevedo said. "Your sergeant said you weren't having an easy time of it."

Zussman offered the medic a light smile. "No death march, but yeah, I was pretty sick on top of everything else."

"Did they make you sign a document?" Acevedo asked, looking around them in case someone else was listening. Stiles had told the rest of them about the paper the other Berga POWs had had to sign.

"No," Zussman replied. "Guess the powers that be haven't figured out I'm one of you guys."

Acevedo nodded. "That's not a bad thing. Talking it out can help, I think. Just don't make a public thing of it. Might get the rest of us in trouble. Or they might put two and two together and make you sign."

Zussman nodded. "They sending you home soon?"

"Not so soon. Lost so much weight it would bring questions. Questions we're not allowed to answer and ones the Army doesn't seem inclined to."

"They're sending us to Le Havre," Zussman told him. "Tomorrow."

"Could be a good thing," Acevedo replied. "The farther you are from the rest of us keeps you separate. And it's on the coast. Might mean they'll be shipping some soldiers home."

Zussman wasn't sure how he felt about that. Would Daniels and the others go home without him? They were all from different parts of the country. Aiello was from New York, Stiles from Philadelphia. Daniels had a farm in Texas. He had no idea where Pierson was from.

It was the same with the guys from Berga. Would any of them see each other again after they went home? This was possibly the last time he'd get to see one of the others. "Thank you," he said. "The little things you guys did, you helped me keep going."

Acevedo smiled. "We all wished we'd done more. For you, for the others that didn't make it." He chuckled and leaned back. "Still hard to believe your own squad got you just in time."

"Yeah," Zussman agreed. Even if they had been looking for him, the odds they'd find him right when they did were pretty low. "Kind of fuzzy for me," Zussman admitted. "Thought I was dreaming, that Daniels had to be dead and Pierson was acting worried. Couldn't be real."

Acevedo laughed again, louder this time. "Yeah, when he and Stiles came to see us, I couldn't believe he was the monster you'd described."

"He's changed," Zussman told him. "Don't know when or why, but he's not so bad now."

"'Cause we've met real monsters?"

"More than that," Zussman told him. "He's more mellow. He's nice."

"He was very concerned about you," Acevedo commented. "Even though he left to find us."

"He didn't used to be concerned about any of his men," Zussman said. He shook his head. "It's almost like he's a completely different person."

Acevedo sighed. "I think maybe we're all different people now. In can't imagine going home and just being who I was before. That guy was naive, definitely thought he was immortal."

Zussman chuckled. "Didn't we all? I was just out of high school. I was trouble-maker."

Acevedo got a good laugh at that one. "Not sure that's changed. You did call Metz a piece of shit."

"Paid for it." Zussman leaned back against the bench, too. "I'd seen anti-Semitism," he admitted, "back in Chicago. Nothing like that though. Never dreamed it could go that far."

"None of us did," Acevedo said. "Though some of the stuff in the papers was just propaganda, exaggerated. Now I know it didn't even do it justice."

Stiles returned them. "Oh, hi," he said, seeing Acevedo sitting there. He was pushing an empty wheelchair.

Acevedo sat up. It took Zussman a little longer to do so. "Just catching up with Zuss here," Acevedo said.

"You're looking better these days," Stiles offered.

"I feel better. Still hungry," he admitted. "I think I could be three hundred pounds and still be hungry all the time."

Zussman could agree with that.

"On that note," Stiles said, "you're in luck. 'Cause I think they're getting dinner ready. I need to get Zuss back. It was good to see you again."

"Likewise," Acevedo replied. He turned back to Zussman. "Whatever happens, live a good life, Zuss. That's your revenge on the Nazis."

Zussman transferred to the wheelchair for the ride back. He held out a hand to Acevedo. The medic shook it. Stiles handed him the paper, then turned him back toward the hospital.

* * *

After dinner, Zussman asked for pen and paper. His mother had been waiting for a letter, even if he wasn't sure what he would say. Stiles gave him both then said he was going for a walk. Zussman knew he was just giving him some privacy. Zussman started by writing the date: May 11, 1945. He had a hard time holding his hand steady so it didn't come out very legible. He scribbled it out and tried again. If he wrote slow enough, it came out better. He wrote the date, then just "Mom." He wanted to tell her everything and only a hint. Everything would make him feel better but it would make her worry more. Besides, if the Army read his letter, the other POWs might get in trouble. Or he would.

So he told her a half-truth. He'd been sick since he was liberated. He ruptured his spleen then got pneumonia. He'd lost a lot of weight in the meantime. The Army was trying to get him healthy again. But his body was weakened and he could barely hold the pen.

That skirted things well. He _had_ been sick. He just left out the starvation and the dust and the beatings. He wanted to let her know why he hadn't written. This time the truth was more than half. Maybe three quarters. He told her he was sorry he didn't write her sooner. But the Germans hadn't given him her letters. And yes, it was because he was Jewish. Captivity was hard and he was happy to be free again. He let her know he'd seen in the news that Hitler was dead and that Germany had surrendered. He'd read about the camps. He knew that it was true, all of it. Germany had to be punished for what they'd done.

He wanted to finish on a hopeful note, to ease her mind. So he told her she shouldn't worry. The pneumonia was gone and he was getting a little stronger every day. He was in a hospital with good doctors and pretty nurses. He had his friends to keep him company.

The whole letter felt shallow compared to the one she'd sent. But it was what he could manage now. If he told her more, he felt he would have to tell her everything. And he couldn't' do that to her. Maybe when he was home, he could tell her.

He folded the letter and wrote his home address on another piece of paper. Then he tucked it under his pillow and set the pad and pen on the chair beside his bed. Stiles came back a few minutes later. He stayed another hour, then it was time to sleep. As Stiles went to leave, Zussman held out his letter and asked him to post it for him. Stiles promised to do so before they set out in the morning.

In the morning, Daniels came in carrying his tack and an extra satchel. "I know you don't have much," he told Zussman, "but I thought you might like someplace to put your letters."

The nurses came for his vitals and to change his bandage. His incision was looking better at least. He hoped he might get the stitches out before they left. The doctor arrived when they were finishing up. He checked Zussman's chart then dropped it to his side. He smiled. "At last you're leaving in a better state than when you arrived," he said. "If only all my patients did."

"That mean I can go home soon," he asked the doctor.

The smile faded. "I think you've got a while yet. It's hardly been a month since your surgery. And your last weigh-in came in at only one ten."

Zussman understood though he didn't like it. He was tired of hospitals, tired of lying in bed. He wanted to be like before, when he was healthy and fit and could go anywhere he pleased.

But his stomach still hurt when he moved and ached sometimes when he didn't. He lost all his energy very quickly over even light exertions. He was so hungry, he felt dizzy just sitting up. And there was always irritation deep in his throat or in his chest that threatened to send him coughing again.

He was down for seven weeks after getting stabbed while otherwise healthy. Now he had a long incision across his abdomen and he was anything but healthy when it happened. He wasn't getting over this for a long time yet.

Aiello came in with a wheelchair, while the doctor gave a hefty stack of files to Daniels. "Those are for the hospital in Le Havre," the doctor said. He handed a smaller set next. "This is for the ambulance. Give it to the lead medic. Pierson and Stiles will be driving. You two will assist the medics with whatever they need."

"Understood," Aiello confirmed. He set the brakes on the wheelchair then reached to help Zussman into it. The nurse there then tucked a blanket onto his lap and handed him his satchel.

The doctor turned back to Zussman. "With luck, you won't have any more pitfalls and will just get better and better from here. You've been through a lot, but you survived all of it. Remember that. Good luck, Private Zussman." He held out a hand and Zussman shook it. The nurse smiled and Aiello pushed him into the hall.

In a few minutes they were on the ground floor and out onto the street. Unlike the park in the courtyard, the street was lively with happy people going about their business. Daniels went to the lead medic while Aiello helped load patients in the ambulance and Zussman waited his turn. He looked around at the buildings and people. One woman sitting in a cafe across the street caught his eye. She had dark hair and looked familiar. She caught his gaze and smiled in recognition. It was his turn, but she held up her cup and tilted her head toward him before he lost sight of her. The realization hit him. "I think I just saw Rousseau," he told Daniels as he helped him into his bunk.

Daniels smiled. "I might have told her we were leaving today."

It was a long drive so Zussman and the other patients slept most of the way. Another truck followed them. It had a few patients and more supplies. They stopped every few hours so the medics could administer meds and such. Zussman always woke up when they stopped. That's when he got food. Aiello and Daniels were kept busy then.

They arrived late in the afternoon. Zussman could see a large Army base out the back of the ambulance. He didn't see civilians anymore, just soldiers. He had to wait his turn again when they stopped. He managed to slip the strap of his satchel over his head and shoulder. He didn't want to lose it in the confusion of activity.

Finally it was his turn, and he was helped down from the truck and into a wheelchair piloted by Aiello once again. He wheeled him into the hospital and a brightly lit, long room with rows of beds on either side. "No more private room, I'm afraid," Aiello commented. "But this one is bright and sunny. Can't be all bad."

There were large windows behind the beds and they let in bright light from the sun just starting to set. Aiello helped him into the second bed from the door and on the left side. He helped take off the satchel and place it under the pillow. "I've gotta go help the others. We're probably going to busier here on base," Aiello told him. "But we'll be by to visit as often as we can."

A doctor arrived soon after Aiello left. He didn't say much as he checked the charts but his eyebrows did raise as he read. He checked the incision in Zussman's abdomen, listened to his heart and breathing with his stethoscope. Finally, when he was done with the examination, he spoke. "I did a few weeks in Buchenwald. Can honestly say, I didn't expect to see one of our soldiers in the same state as some of the survivors there."

Zussman didn't say anything. He hadn't asked a question after all.

"Still," the doctor went on, "looks as though the worst has passed. No more internal bleeding and the pneumonia has cleared up. What you need now is to heal and to grow. How does six meals a day for a week or two sound?"

Zussman was paying attention now. He nodded.

"Small meals, mind you. We'll see what you tolerate. Eventually, they'll get bigger and less frequent until you're on a normal schedule. Maybe in a few weeks, we'll get you up for short walks, start building your strength back up. Sound like a plan?"

Zussman nodded again. A month after his liberation, he was finally getting good news from a doctor.

"Right then," the doctors said. "We'll send a nurse by in a bit with something to eat."

He was as good as his word. Not fifteen minutes later, a nurse came by with warm, buttered toast, a bowl of apple sauce, and some milk to wash it down. Things were looking up. He even ate the crusts. The apple sauce was sweet and a little on the chunky side. The milk was cold and creamy. It felt good to have so many flavors in one meal.

Still, once it was gone, he wanted more. And he got sleepy. The nurse helped him lay down again and tucked the blanket up over his shoulders as he yawned.

In his dream he was not laying on a bed, warmed by a blanket and the rays of the sun. He was lying on the cold, hard, snow-covered ground after getting knocked down by Metz on his way back to his barracks. The side of his head hurt, but he pushed himself up on his elbows. Metz knelt down to get at his eye level. Zussman glared at him. He was never going to let that son of a bitch win.

Metz stood and kicked him in the gut, which knocked him down again. "_Du musst Deinen Platz lernen, jüdisches Schwein._"

Zussman tried to ignore him and concentrated on getting back to his feet. It was harder and took longer than he liked in front of this Nazi.

"_Aber immer noch sagt dein Gesicht, 'Fick dich'_." He backhanded Zussman but Zussman still managed to stay on his feet this time. He took a step toward the barracks.

"_Ich werde dich davon befreien, bevor du heir abreist._" Metz told him. "_Und der einzege Weg, auf dem du hier wegkommst, ist der Weg zu deinem Grab._"

Finally Metz walked away and the guard who'd stood back watching caught up with him again.


	10. Chapter Ten: Le Havre, Part I

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Ten: Le Havre, Part I**

Things were different in Le Havre. For one, they were back with the First. They were back with their squad, including the newer recruits. Actually, Daniels mused, they weren't new recruits anymore. They were veterans of battle. All of them had seen action, just not as much of it as the five of them.

They were now bunked with their squad, platoon and company. They had duties. Some grumbled but not Daniels. Battle was exciting and deadly. It took away good men, changed some men for the worse, others for the better. It was exhausting and cold and hungry. Life on base was quieter, safer, and comfortable. The duties were as far from deadly as they could get. No one was shooting at you. There were no mines or bombs or machine guns. Well, the guns were there, of course, but they belonged to the winning side, and there were no enemies to fire at here on the French coast.

Given that, Daniels decided he liked base life. He'd been a warrior in battle but he was happy to set that behind him. He'd probably be going home soon, and he had a kid to think of. The only downside was that they couldn't see Zussman as often. Their duties weren't staggered in such a way to allow for one of them to sit with Zuss throughout the day. Daniels made a commitment to himself to stop by every evening after chow.

Stiles was happy there were showers. Aiello loved the food, which wasn't great, but was definitely better than field rations. If anyone was out of place, it was Sergeant Pierson. He'd been a warrior for longer than the other four. He had welcomed the break when they had Zuss to look after. But even then, he was restless and left to find the other Berga POWs. Daniels wasn't sure what Pierson would do now that the war was over and Zuss was not their responsibility any more.

In fact, Daniels wasn't sure what Pierson was doing during the day. He always showed up for dinner though. That was true again today. While most of the other sergeants ate together, Pierson joined the three of them. He sat his tray on the table then worked his way onto the bench. "How's Zussman doing?" he asked after taking a bite of his pork chops.

Daniels told the truth. He didn't have to sugar-coat things with these guys. "It's harder, even though he's feelin' better. I think he's lonely and bored. Too much time to think and he has nightmares."

Stiles huffed. "So do I and I just saw that stuff. He lived it."

Daniels nodded. "Not saying I'm surprised. I just wish I could help somehow."

"You see him every day," Aiello pointed out. "I'm sure that helps a lot."

Daniels nodded. It helped some, sure. But there was so much more it didn't help. Because he hadn't been able to get Zuss off that truck, Zuss had had to endure cold, hunger, overwork and abuse for two months. And they couldn't even punish the people who caused all that because the survivors of Berga weren't allowed to talk about it.

Pierson might have read his mind. "You know they want to put on a trial. Or a series of trials. They want to hold Nazi leadership to account for their atrocities."

"What leaders?" Aiello asked. "Hitler's dead. Goebbels and his wife killed their kids then themselves."

"We got Goering though," Stiles commented. "They'll get some of the others. Himmler is still out there."

"They need to try others, too," Daniels added. "All the commandants of the concentration camps, for example."

"We have caught a number of them," Stiles replied.

"They got Metz," Pierson said, surprising them all. Metz had been the commandant of Berga. He was the one who tormented Zussman and the others. "Caught him a few days after the POWs were liberated."

"I hope they hang his ass," Aiello replied. "Or let me shoot him."

"I'd let Zuss do it," Daniels said.

They all nodded at that. They finished their meal in quiet thought mostly. Pierson stopped Daniels before he left for the hospital. "You know, they're setting up Displaced Persons camps for survivors. The Red Cross is trying to work up lists, help people find loved ones-or find out what happened to them. Zussman had family here, right? See if he can get some names."

Daniels was skeptical. "From Germany? They had years of persecution long before the war even began. How the hell would any of them survive?"

"Some have," Pierson told him. "Not many, but some. Maybe someone his parents knew."

Daniels nodded. It was a long shot but he supposed it didn't hurt to try, even to maybe just learn where they died.

Zussman sat up when Daniels arrived by his bed. They started out with small talk, what Daniels had done during the day, what he'd had for dinner-Zuss was always very interested in food-and how the others were.

Zuss told him he'd gained a few more pounds. And that he'd gotten another letter from his mom. She was glad to hear he was healing well and safe. She wanted to set him up with at least three young women in the synagogue when he gets home. He even smiled at that part. Daniels hadn't seen him smile much since he'd been capture. But the smile faded quickly.

"They're not sending me home," he said. "Not for a while. A long while."

"None us know when we're goin' home," Daniels told him. "I'm chomping at the bit to see Hazel and meet my son. Man, it feels strange to say that!"

There was that smile again. "You're gonna be a good dad."

"I hope so," Daniels admitted. "I wasn't there for Hazel when he was born."

"She had your folks," Zuss reminded him.

Daniels felt overwhelmed by homesickness now. He felt bad for Zuss because he felt it, too. Daniels had his duties to keep him busy most of the day. Zuss had lying in his bed. "They getting' you up and movin' yet?" he asked to change the subject.

"A little," Zuss repiled. "Hadn't wanted me to pull my stitches. But they came out yesterday."

"I'll bet you're still sore."

Zuss nodded. "Back when I was having trouble just breathing, I almost forgot about my spleen. I remember now."

"Well, if the stitches are out," Daniels commented, "you're definitely healing. It can only get better from here."

"Don't jinx it," Zuss warned. "I think Aiello told me that back in Bad Orb."

Daniels chuckled. They talked about different things until Daniels had to go. Then he remembered what Pierson had said. "Hey Zuss, when you write your mom back, ask her for a list of names, everyone your folks cared about who were still in Germany."

A lost sort of expression filled Zuss's face and Daniels realized that had been his normal expression since Berga. "You can't think any survived. Jews were dying in Germany long before the war even. Then they shipped 'em all out to ghettos and death squads and camps."

"Pierson's been talking to the Red Cross," Daniels told him. "They're getting information, making lists to help people find information or maybe even each other. There are German Jewish survivors. There's a chance. Or maybe just something to know instead of not knowing."

Finally, Zuss nodded. "I can ask."

The nurses were making their way down the rows of beds, shooing out visitors so the patients could get some sleep. Daniels took the hint. "I'll see you tomorrow," he told Zussman.

Zuss have him a quick, small smile before that lost look settled onto his face again.

Daniels made it back to his barracks just before lights out.

"How's he doing?" Stiles asked from his bunk.

Daniels shrugged. "He smiled a couple times."

"That's something," Aiello said.

* * *

If Zussman turned just right, he could catch a weak beam of light from the window behind him. He held his mother's letter up to it and tried to read but it wasn't enough to make out the words. He'd have to wait until morning. He folded the letter carefully and placed it back in his satchel before tucking the satchel under his pillow.

Instead, he tried to remember the pictures his mother had shown him growing up. The ones of her parents, her sisters, and their families. Another album held his father's families' photographs. His grandfather was a veteran of the Great War, his grandmother, a rabbi's daughter. Zussman's father was an only child, but his grandfather's brother had a large family. Six children, all married and with children of their own. Zussman had grown up an only child, too. He had no grandparents or aunts or uncles or cousins. Not people he could meet or hug or talk to. Those photos had been his parents' way to show him he was part of a very large family after all.

Over the years, as letters passed between the US and Germany, new photographs had come and ones of their little family had gone. He tried to picture the faces from those photographs again. Surely the older ones had perished and probably the very young. But maybe some of his cousins had beat the odds and survived. Then he thought of the gas chambers and thought maybe not. Had they starved in the ghettos? Been beaten to death before they were sent away? Maybe they had fallen ill and passed in the night. Or had they been shot in a ditch with dozens of others? Or packed into a shower room where water wouldn't flow and they choked to death on gas?

He closed his eyes. He didn't want to think of them like that. He didn't want to imagine being inside a gas chamber. Berga had been bad enough.

He tried to think of happier things. Anything besides Nazis before the meds kicked in and he fell asleep. He forced himself to think of puppies and kittens, of going to senior prom with Carol Klein. But always Berga and Metz forced their way through those happy thoughts as soon as his concentration waned. And by the time he was dreaming, he was back there once again, stumbling through the door of the barracks.

He felt hollowed out by the time he woke up. The morning sun was streaming in the windows, filling the room with light. His stomach growled and rumbled. He let go of the bad dreams that had held him at night and waited, focused on his upcoming breakfast.

As evidence of his healing body, his meals were getting bigger and more complex, though less frequent. This morning he was excited to see pancakes on his tray. There was a pat of butter on top and syrup dripping off the sides. Another small plate held hash browns, and he had milk to wash it all down. Until he swallowed the last bite and drank the last of his milk, he felt he was in heaven. He wanted to lick the left over syrup off the plate but resisted. He wasn't a child and he didn't want to explain to his fellow patients how he'd starved for two months.

When an orderly came by to take his tray, Zussman pulled his satchel from under his pillow, wincing a little as he twisted around. Aiello had managed to get him some stationary so he could write letters when he wished and not just read them. Stiles had found him a couple pens. But he wasn't ready to write yet. He wanted to read his mother's letter again.

May 14, 1945

Dear Robbie,

We were so happy to receive your letter! I wish I could have been there to nurse you through your sickness. But I pray for you every day. Every day. Now that you're getting better, will they send you home to us? Some soldiers have started coming home. Darla Johnson's husband came back. I saw them at the market together. He was rail thin but smiling and happy. I want that for you, Robbie.

Do you remember Carol Klein? She asked about you after services on Saturday. You and she made such a handsome couple your senior year. And Martha Goldstein, the rabbi's daughter, is back on leave. She looks smart in her Army nurse's uniform. She's stationed in France. Maybe the hospital where you are? And Marie Hoffman asked to see your picture again. She seemed pleased when I told her you were liberated and will come home soon. I hope.

I think about my family from time to time, Robbie, and your father's. We've had no letters for years now. I fear they are all gone, and we three are all that is left of our families. I see the pictures in the newspapers and it hurts so much to think about how so many people have suffered and died. The numbers are staggering and they grow and grow as more people are found, alive or dead.

But, oh, let us write of happier things! Your father is so relieved to hear from you again. His shoulders don't slump anymore. He smiles again. He laughs. I even caught him singing along with the radio.

Mrs. Herzel's cat had kittens two months ago and we've taken in one. He is such a silly little thing! It's nearly impossible to be sad when I watch him frolicking in a sunbeam or batting his little ball around the room. And he looks so sweet when he's sleeping. We named him Truman, after the president. Your father hopes he'll make a good mouser. He looks like a tiger, except he's white instead of orange. I admit I fell in love at first sight. Maybe I can send you a picture if he'll sit still long enough.

I must stop now if I'm to get this to the post office before it closes. I don't want you to wait any longer than necessary for your letter.

We love you, Robbie. Never doubt that. Please come home to us and meet little Truman. Come home to me.

With all my love,

Your mother

He loved the way she jumped from one thing to another. She always had when she was excited. Or worried. He would go home today if they'd let him, and if he could walk farther than ten yards without assistance.

"Letter from your girl?" the patient to his right asked. Harrison was his name.

"My mom," Zuss answered.

Harrison smiled. "That works, too. My last was a 'Dear John.'"

"Ouch. That's rough," Zussman told him. "I don't have a girl back home, not that my mom isn't already working on that."

Harrison started to laugh but ended up coughing and the conversation ended there. Besides there was a visitor making the rounds. Colonel Davis was stopping to speak with each of the men for a few minutes. Zussman tried to sit up straighter when it was his turn.

"As you were, Private Zussman," Davis ordered. "I'm very glad you're still with us, son. And back with us."

"Thank you, sir," Zussman said. "It's good to be back." He decided to risk being honest. "It'd be better to be going home."

"In time," the colonel replied. "We don't even have a uniform you could fit in at this point. You'll get there. I promise." Then he reached into a pocket and pulled something out. "You were stabbed in Normandy. But you left the hospital a week early, it seems. So you didn't get this then." He held out the object. "So I wanted to make sure you received it now."

Zussman took it. It was a purple ribbon with a heart-shaped medal bearing the bust of Washington. A purple heart. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. You're a good soldier, Private. You fought well." Then he stood up straight and saluted before moving off to the next man.

Zussman held his medal up to the light. For being wounded in conflict. Not for his later wounds. Those hadn't come from armed conflict. Still, it meant something that the colonel had gone back to make sure he got this. Now he had one more thing besides his letters. He opened his satchel and pinned his purple heart inside to keep it safe. Then he pulled out his papers and a pen. He sat them on the satchel so he had a somewhat stiff surface to write against.

He still couldn't tell his mother everything. So he told her about the purple heart-for getting stabbed back in June last year. He told her about being transferred to Le Havre. He could do that now that the war was over. He told her that he was getting better, that his stitches had come out and he was able to walk a bit now. He told her mostly he was bored and looked forward to her letters. He missed them both and wanted to come home, but he had to heal more and get stronger first.

Let her just be happy for a bit, he felt. Help her let the worry she'd felt since his capture (or maybe earlier) fade away because she knew he wasn't sick anymore. Don't let her know how much he wanted to be home in his own bed, half a world away from Berga and the Nazis. Don't let her know that he couldn't walk far without wearing himself out. And, most of all, don't let her know what he suffered or that would start her worrying all over again.

He didn't mention the women from the synagogue. He wasn't ready for anything to do with romance. Not when he probably weighed less than they did. And Carol had only gone to the dance with him because she thought he was just enough of a bad guy to be interesting without being too dangerous. What would she think of him now?

So he thought instead about what Daniels had said. Get a list. Zussman knew the names of his grandparents, the first names of his aunts and great-uncle, but beyond that he hadn't kept track. They were family but people he'd never meet. They were faces in pictures. He had felt no real affinity for them, beyond worry for them along with all the other Jews in Germany as things got worse. That young man in Berga had said his whole village was gone. Would it be the same with his parents' families?

'Mom, can you give me a list? All the names of your family back in Germany? And Dad's? The Red Cross is trying to make lists of everyone, so people can maybe find out what happened to their loved ones or if they survived. It's a long shot, for sure, but maybe we can do that. Maybe we can find out what happened to them.'

He signed the letter and sealed it. He addressed it and left it on the table beside his bed. The staff here would make sure it got posted. It wasn't even noon and he still needed to figure out what to do with his day. He tried to list his options. Nothing, nothing, or nothing. Or sleep. And sleep meant going back to Berga. Still, he yawned. To his left and right, the other men were sleeping.

Zussman wished he could just close his eyes and wake up like he used to be: healthy and strong. Then he'd be with his squad doing whatever the Army deemed needed doing. He wouldn't be hungry all the time, hurting all the time, and haunted by two months of his life that were worse than the other seven months that should've been. The months when he was doing dangerous things, getting shot at, getting stabbed, getting yelled at by Sergeant Pierson.

Instead he missed that. Not the danger, really. But the purpose, the brotherhood. After he got stabbed, he spent seven long weeks without his squad. He'd survived Omaha Beach. He had that in common with all the other guys laid up in the hospital. They talked about it, about home, about girls, about life. They could commiserate and sympathize with each other.

Now he felt he had nothing in common with the patients here. They'd been shot, or blown up. They'd survived the Ardennes and Remagen. They'd fought together. They hadn't been captured. Hadn't been singled out by Metz. Hadn't been starved, forced to work in thick, choking dust. Hadn't been beaten every day. Hadn't had to watch fellow prisoners die one after another after another. What could they possibly talk about? They probably wouldn't even believe him if he did tell them.

Then he realized this would be how it would be at home, too. Most of the people there wouldn't have been in battle, let alone Berga. There would probably be a lot of veterans at least. Maybe even some who liberated a camp. Maybe they would understand. But not Berga. Maybe he shouldn't be in such a hurry to get home.

Feeling morose, he laid down and turned over on this his side. He closed his eyes, thinking how he'd eventually be strong enough to get out of this bed and walk out the door. He'd gain his weight back and look more like his old self. But he could never be his old self. He felt like his body was just a shell and he'd been hollowed out. Acevedo had told him to live a good life. How? How when he couldn't smile for more than five seconds. When he couldn't feel satisfied after a meal? When he couldn't figure out how to leave Berga behind.

Shouldn't he be happy now? He was free. Germany had lost the war. He got good food to eat, appropriate medical care, friends who visited. Heck, even Pierson was a friend now. He was able to read and keep his mother's letters. He could breathe again for the most part, and his stomach was healing. Why couldn't he just be happy?

He felt the days start to bleed over from one to the next with little to keep him from thoughts like that. There were occasional visits from Stiles or Aiello, daily ones from Daniels. And there were the times they got him up to walk. Other than that, he was in that bed watching the light from the windows move across the opposite wall.

The nightmares when he slept were constant. Yet his body needed the rest and he slept anyway. It was always Metz or someone dying, or both. He wished he could just forget and never think of it again. It was just two months of his life. Two months! He was twenty years old. Even if he took away all the months he'd been in war he'd lived nineteen years of his life in relative happiness. Why should two months ruin that? But he still couldn't change how he felt or what he dreamed at night. Happiness wouldn't come and Metz kept winning.

And then he got the news that the others in squad were going home. Stiles had told him. Daniels had hemmed and hawed around it until Zussman told him he knew. Stiles had also told him of Daniels' offer to be discharged as a war hero after his injury months before and how he'd ripped it up to get Pierson to let him back in to fight. Zussman didn't understand that. He could have been home for the birth of his son. Or he could have died in the fighting. He'd risked a lot. There was still no word when Zussman would get to go home.

His present life just wasn't giving him much to be happy about.

* * *

Daniels stood with Stiles and Aiello and looked up at Colonel Davis. He expected a good speech. He'd done well enough at the start of all this.

Davis's voice rang out over the loud-speakers. "When history called, you answered. From all walks of life, you came to defend peace and freedom. I thank you. The world thanks you. And wherever your path takes you, know this: You will always be amongst a brotherhood of heroes."

Well, he was right. Good speech and a short one at that. As the crowd of soldiers broke up, the three of them stood together. Aiello spoke first. "This is it, fellas."

Daniels held out the St. Thomas medallion to him. Zussman had given it to him the evening before. "Zussman wanted you to have it."

Aiello made no move to take it. "Eh, you'll need it more than me. You got a kiddo now."

It was still a lot to take in. He was a father! "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said, pocketing the medallion.

Aiello dismissed that. "Aw, you'll be fine." He picked up his bag. "Gentlemen." He turned and as he walked away, he pumped his fist in the air and called out, "Queens! Your prodigal son returns!"

Daniels shook his head, smiling. Stiles chuckled aloud and bent to pick up his own bag. "Well, are you gonna be okay?"

Daniels thought he must have noticed he hadn't brought his own bag yet. "Gotta say goodbye to Zussman," he explained.

Stiles saluted someone, so Daniels turned and saw Pierson arriving. Daniels saluted, too, and Pierson saluted back. "Sergeant," Stiles acknowledged before heading for ship that would take him home.

"Goin' home, Sergeant," Daniels asked and wondered where that was exactly.

"I am home," was his answer. "What about you? You gonna re-up?"

Daniels thought about his boy, and Hazel. She'd kill him if he postponed coming home again. "I've been away from Texas for a long time."

"You take care, Farmboy," Pierson offered.

"I will," Daniels said. "And when my son asks what I did, I'll tell him I fought with the First and that crazy bastard Pierson."

Pierson nodded and started walking away. "Crazy ain't the half of it," he threw back.

Left alone then, Daniels turned toward the hospital. He was homesick and couldn't wait to hold Hazel and look at the face of this little boy. But leaving Zussman behind wasn't what he wanted. They'd arrived together. They should have left together. It wasn't fair to Zussman.

Zussman sat up when he approached. He had gained a few more points but he still seemed frail and thin. Daniels could nearly see his ribs through the t-shirt he was wearing. And he could tell that Zussman was trying to put a brave face on. He knew that Zussman was already having a hard time being alone most of the day. Now even his best friend was leaving.

They managed small talk at first. Daniels told Zussman about the Colonel's speech and Aiello's boisterous departure. He asked his Zuss's mom had sent a list back. If she had, it hadn't arrived yet.

They both sensed it was time. Daniels still had to get his pack from the barracks. "If you're ever in Chicago," Zussman began.

"I'll get there," Daniels assured him. Before the war, he'd never even thought he'd leave Texas, let alone go to a big city like Chicago. Now he'd been halfway across the world. Chicago didn't seem so far.

"Or maybe I'll surprise you in Longview first," Zussman said, pulling Daniels out of his thoughts.

"You're welcome anytime," Daniels told him and he meant it.

Zussman's eyes took on a faraway look. Daniels realized the small talk was over. "You know," Zussman began, "when they captured us, wasn't just our freedom that they took. Even though we were together, you know, we were alone, looking for any way to survive." Daniels heard the anguish in that, the truth he could barely begin to fathom. "But you," he went on, "you 'coulda gone home a hero. Why'd you come back?"

Oh didn't he know? Daniels straightened up then relaxed against the bed again. "I saw that life." A life where he left his brothers behind to fight and Zussman to die. "I just couldn't live it." He held out his arm to Zussman just like they used to do. "To the end."

Zussman put his arm out. They met once then again to hold on for a shake or two. "To the end."

Then it was time. He had to go. Daniels reluctantly let go of Zussman's arm. He felt bad leaving.

"Give my love to Hazel and your boy," Zussman said, letting him go.

Daniels nodded. "I expect you to write," he said. They had all shared contact information.

Zussman offered a small smile. "If I'm still here, they'll be a very boring letters."

Daniels smiled back. "I'm sure they'd get better over time." Outside a siren blared. He had to go. He sighed then nodded at Zussman who nodded back. He left the hospital and dashed for the barracks. He made it onto the ship just before they pulled the gangplank up. Stiles was waiting on deck. "Save you a bunk."


	11. Chapter Eleven: Le Havre, Part II

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Eleven: Le Havre, Part II**

Zussman tried to tell himself he'd be fine. He was a grown man, not a child, after all. He was in a clean bed in a pleasant hospital far from any fighting or Nazis. This wasn't so bad. He'd had worse. Far worse.

But it wasn't working. He felt so alone now. No visits anymore. His friends were heading home and he wasn't with them. His friends from Berga were someplace else, maybe still in Paris. Maybe also heading home.

If he hadn't been captured, things would have been so different. Daniels wouldn't have been shot. Zussman would never had had the displeasure of meeting Metz or his goons. He would have fought alongside the others. He would've helped take the bridge at Remagen and fought on to the Ruhr pocket and on until the end of the war. He'd be going home with them. The four of them bunking together on the way home like they had on the way over, like they had all the way back in basic.

Or Danieis would have been captured with him. Things might not have gone so differently. Metz would still have come, and Zussman would still have been taken away. Daniels probably wouldn't. He'd have been liberated there in Bad Orb. Maybe he'd have wanted to come looking. Or maybe the Army would have stopped him. And Zussman would have been shot with others on April 6th.

It was Daniels' drive to find him that had caught on with the others, led them to disobey orders. Led them right to him just before that fatal shot. To the end. That's what they'd promised. And Daniels had not forgotten. He'd given up that hero's welcome to make sure Zussman made it to the end.

The nurse came by with a robe and slippers. It was time for a walk. Zussman moved his legs to the side of the bed and slipped his feet into the slippers. Then he let her help him stand up. He was dizzy for a moment but it passed.

"We're going a little farther today," she told him. "Out the door, around the front and back in the far door."

Zussman just nodded. Initially it always felt good to be on his feet instead of lying in that bed. The first few steps were wobbly but they straightened out. She walked beside him as they stepped into the light of the setting sun. There were benches along the path in front of the hospital wing he was housed in. They passed two of them before he started breathing harder. He'd walked every day of his imprisonment when he was starved, choked, and beaten. Why was it so much harder now that he was free and healing?

He really wanted to rest on that last bench, and he knew the nurse would let him. But he wanted to get better so she could go home. Walking farther before collapsing was getting better. So he pushed on.

They entered the hospital wing again and his feet felt like lead to lift. Still, he lifted them. "Almost there," the nurse said, and she did her best to support him as he headed for his bed. He felt dizzy again, but he trusted her not to let him fall. By the time they made it back to the bunk, he was completely worn out. She helped him shrug off the robe and get back under his blanket. She left and came back with a glass of water. He drank it all then sunk into his mattress. He was asleep a few minutes later.

He was pushed to the floor by a rifle butt in his back. The other prisoners lay still on their bunks. The door was slammed shut behind him as he got to his hands and knees. As soon as they locks were set, there were other arms lifting him up, looking him over. The medic tended him as best he could them gave him the evening meal he'd saved for him. It was awful but it was all he had so he ate it anyway. Then he collapsed on his bunk, covered up with the threadbare blanket and tried to lay so as to cause the least amount of pain so he could sleep. Morning came far too fast in Berga.

* * *

His mother's letter came a week later. In a box. The box was a hit in the ward. Any patient close enough wanted to watch him open it. It was probably the most exciting thing to happen in their day. Inside, he found a shadow box of his battle ribbons. These would have been worn on his dress uniform. The army had sent them home after his capture. There were chocolates and cookies. He'd have to run those by the doctor, he was sure. They wanted him to eat and grow using healthy foods. There was also a smaller box inside. That's where the letter was, along with photos from the photo albums he'd known since childhood. Along with the letter were three lists. One for his mother's side of the family. One for his father's. It was apparent she'd put a lot of thought and care into it. Everyone was arranged as in a family tree. The third list was of friends they knew from their youth in Stuttgart. The photos all had names written on their backs.

Once he'd seen all the other contents, the put the box under his bed and opened her letter. There was one other photo in the letter. It was black and white but very clearly showed a little white kitten with black stripes. Truman was written on the back. Truman was curled up in a chair.

"That a girl?" Harrison asked.

Zussman turned it so he could see. "Kitten."

"Ah well," Harrison replied. "They're cute, too." He lost interest and the others had gone back to their beds, so Zussman leaned back to read his letter.

* * *

May 28th, 1945

Dearest Robbie,

Your last letter was so short. But we were happy to get it. It's good to read that you are walking. You must have been quite sick to only be walking nearly two months since your liberation. That's okay though. You deserve the rest. I want you to get healthy enough to come home.

I was able to get a picture of Truman, but only while he's sleeping. He looks so innocent then. He does like to cuddle when he's sleeping.

The list took a little longer. Do you really think anyone survived? We've received no letters, except from you. They suffered already under the Nazis. Twelve years before the war. And then those camps. Robbie, it's horrible to even think of it. Everyone in the synagogue is talking about it, wondering if the people they knew in Europe are still alive.

Still, like you wrote, maybe we can find some news about what happened to them. If I try hard, I can still see my sister's faces when they waved goodbye to us as we left for America. Little Helene was only twelve. Of course she's older now and married and has three boys. Or she was and she did. Oh, it hurts just to think that they're gone forever.

In happier news, your father got a promotion. He's now a supervisor in the plant. There are new workers, too. Some were soldiers who have now come home. Maybe you can get a job there when you're feeling better. Or you can go to university. You were very good in school. If you study, you could do anything you want. Maybe it's something you can think about while you wait to come home. If you want, I could send you some flyers about the schools here in Chicago. There are quite a few.

I have some sad news, too, Robbie. Your friend, George Jensen, died fighting the Japanese when his ship sank. His mother is anguished. Kirby Stowers is home though. He asked after you. He seems so different now. You three got into so much trouble back in high school.

Well, I should finish so I can get your box posted. I thought you might get another uniform, so you'd need your ribbons. And I don't know if the doctors will let you have the sweets. Share them if you want to.

With all my love,

Your mother

* * *

George had chosen the Navy. Kirby wanted to fly. Zussman had chosen the Army. He wanted to go to Germany, to defeat the Nazis specifically. They were the ones persecuting the Jews. They went so beyond persecuting. He hoped George went quickly and didn't suffer.

And no, he didn't really think anyone on those lists was still alive. But maybe someone knew when or where they had died.

* * *

Pierson had been busy since the others had left. He had a new squad to get into shape. The Army still had work to do in Europe. But he'd worked it out with Davis now. He had enlisted again but would be on light duty until Zussman went home. He would remain on base so he could visit. But he wasn't restricted to base so he could go to the Red Cross and research Zussman's list. As soon as he had a list.

Before surprising Zussman, Pierson stopped to talk to one of the doctor's. He told Pierson they were getting Zussman out of the bed for a walk every afternoon. Pierson volunteered to help with that. Zussman was up to walking about a quarter of a mile at this point. The doctor warned him not to push Zussman too hard, and to let him take a break if he need one. But they wanted him to go a little father every couple of days. His abdomen had healed and his lungs were as clear as they would get at this point. There was no way to clean the dust from the tunnels out of them. He weighed about one forty now and was eating full-size meals.

The doctor pointed to the wing, and Pierson set off to find Zussman. Many of the beds were now empty as patients were released or transferred elsewhere. But there were still a few, including on either side of Zussman. Zussman sat up when he saw him approaching.

"Sarge?" he said. "You didn't go home."

Pierson lightly slapped Zussman's legs so he'd move them over, then he sat down on the edge of the bed. There weren't any chairs handy. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Daniels: I am home. Sorry I haven't been around. Gonna do better about that now."

Zussman just watched him for a minute. Pierson couldn't tell if Zussman was relieved to have a visitor or not. "Did you ever get a list from your parents?" he asked.

"Today," Zussman replied. "Lists."

Pierson's eyebrows shot up. "Lists?"

"Mother's side, father's side, some friends. They lived here until their twenties, wrote letters back and forth after, until things got too bad in Germany. Got pictures, too."

"Wow." That was probably more words than he'd heard Zussman say in a month since they'd found him. But it was also more than he had expected.

"Box under my bed," Zussman said and Pierson understood he should retrieve it. He bent over and found it. It was actually kind of heavy, and he wondered if Zussman had had the strength to get it himself. He held the box on his lap but turned so Zussman could get into it.

He lifted out a smaller box. Inside were three folded pieces of paper and twenty or more photographs. He handed the papers to Pierson. "You think you can find them?"

Pierson unfolded the papers. The first two had a sort of family tree in neat penmanship. There were names and even birthdates for some. Zussman had three aunts on his mother's side, their husbands and children, and even some grandchildren. He had a great uncle on his father's side. That uncle had two children, both of whom had married and had children and grandchildren of their own. In a few cases there even the names of spouses and in-laws. He picked up a photo and turned it over. The same neat writing was there, giving names and the date of the photo, even if only a year.

"I never met any of them," Zussman told him. "I only knew them from photos and letters my parents got. We stopped getting letters after the war started. Mom's letters came back unopened. She cried for two days."

"You know," Pierson said. "We saw people in Ohrdruff and Buchenwald. Living skeletons of people. It's easy to forget they had had normal lives before all this. The bodies were just so many, you couldn't see the person in the corpses, you know? But they were people, just like the people in these photos. I'm sorry your family was caught up in this."

"I don't think she expects you to find them alive," Zussman replied. "But maybe we can know how they died."

"May I take these?" Pierson asked, holding up the lists. "I'll see if I can't get a copy made."

"Yeah," Zussman answered. He closed the smaller box and put it back in the big one. Pierson put the lists inside his jacket and put the box back under the bed.

Just then a nurse came by with a robe and some slippers.

"Time for my walk," Zussman said. He wasn't exactly enthusiastic about it.

Pierson stood. "I'll take it from here." He put the slippers on the floor and held out the robe so Zussman could slip his arms in. The nurse left. "So where do you want to go?"

"Not sure," Zussman replied. "Haven't seen much and I can't get very far."

"Okay then," Pierson said. "I'll decide."

* * *

Zussman knew that Pierson had changed. He didn't get the full story of why or how. Either way, he still didn't want to appear weak beside the sergeant. Which didn't make any sense, he realized. Pierson had seen him weak since they found him just outside Berga camp. He'd seen him dying.

Still, he felt it all the same. But Pierson didn't walk too fast to keep up, and he told him about what he was seeing: the pier in the distance, the barracks, the store, headquarters.

Every day, at the same time, Pierson was there and they went for a walk. It became something Zussman looked forward to. Sometimes they talked of little things and other times of not so little things. Pierson even told him what had happened at Kasserine. And it wasn't at all what Zussman had thought. Pierson felt responsible for the men he'd lost, and he even admitted that he'd tried hard not to care about his men this time around because of that.

That explained a lot. It didn't excuse it really. He'd been awful back before Zussman was captured. Somewhere in that time, he'd changed. He cared about his men now.

The day Zussman finally made it to the pier, he drummed up the courage to ask.

"It was Daniels," Pierson confessed as they sat and watched the gulls and ate the last of Mama's cookies. "He barged into my tent wanting back in. I wasn't having it. He'd disobeyed a direct order, and I was drunk as shit. But he stood his ground. Even ripped up his papers to go home. I relented, but I was still a hard-ass, trust me. No, it was his drive to find you. It was contagious. And after Ohrdruff, I just couldn't leave you in Nazi hands either. Then seeing you there on the ground. I realized I did care about the four of you, and it hadn't gotten you all killed. It had saved your life."

Zussman had never dreamed he'd hear an admission like that from Sergeant Pierson. But he _had_ changed and Zussman realized he was lucky to count him a friend.

"Your mom makes good cookies," Pierson told him.

"Yes, she does," Zussman replied.

That evening he estimated Daniels had made it home to Texas, and he'd promised to write. So he told his friend about his walks with Pierson, about getting stronger and his hopes for getting home soon. It wasn't a lot there really wasn't a lot to his life right now. He did ask about the trip back and the baby, and about how he found civilian life after being in battle for nearly a year.

Having done that letter, he decided he needed to update his parents as well, though he had hoped his next letter would say that he was headed home.

He spent far less time sleeping now, and even less time just lounging on his bed. He kept the robe and slippers and sat outside a lot. Never far, so the nurses and doctors could find him when they needed to or it was time to eat.

Three weeks after Daniels had left France, Zussman had finally gotten his papers. He was to be discharged from the hospital that day and from the Army at the end of the week.

He just stared at the notice for a while, stunned. Finally, the Army was going to let him go home. A nurse came for him after lunch. She gave him clothes that reminded him of boot camp. Pants, shoes, a T-shirt. It wasn't even a full uniform. But he guessed he didn't need one just yet. He doubted the Army would put him to work for just four days.

After he was dressed, the doctor appeared. He handed him some papers. Looking them over, they were just advice to stay healthy and eat well. The doctor told him to collect his things, so he put his satchel into the box his mother had sent and picked it up. Then the doctor led him out of the hospital and into the sun. Zussman had no idea where he was supposed to go from there.

Fortunately, he saw Pierson coming to meet him. "Let's find you a bunk in the barracks." Pierson took the box from him and led the way. Zussman knew where it was from the walks he'd taken with Pierson the last couple weeks. "So what are you up to now, buck fifty?"

"One fifty-three," Zussman answered. "Still not my normal weight but I guess they finally think it's good enough to send me home.

"You're stronger now, too," Pierson said. "As for your weight, you'll get there. You might even get fat eating like a civilian."

Zussman closed his eyes for a moment. "When I get home, I'm gonna get a deep dish pizza. Might even eat the whole thing."

They found a room with a bunk, then Pierson said he had to get back to work, but he'd come by for dinner. Before he left, Zussman asked if he'd found any leads at the Red Cross.

Pierson shook his head. "There's new names coming in every day, though. Still might. See you at eighteen hundred."

Zussman looked around. He felt like he'd traded a bed with nothing to do for a bunk with nothing to do. He saw a couple foot lockers on the floor by the wall so he put his box down by them. He but put his satchel over his shoulders. He couldn't leave his letters behind. He decided he'd go for a walk. He knew his way around the base because he'd seen it all before on his walks.

As he walked, he tried telling himself that he could finally be happy. He was out of the hospital and going home. Germany had lost the war. Its leaders were going to be tried in a court for their crimes. He'd survived. He was free. No one could tell him he couldn't go here or leave there.

It all sounded good, but he just didn't feel it. And that night, when he slept, he was back in Berga watching another soldier die.


	12. Chapter Twelve: Hohne

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Twelve: Hohne**

On the morning of the fourth day, when Zussman left the barracks for breakfast, he saw a ship at the pier. Maybe that was his ship.

He was eating his eggs and has browns, when Pierson suddenly sat down across from him. "You can't leave today."

Zussman felt his stomach drop. "Why?"

Pierson held his gaze. "I think I found someone."

Pierson pulled the lists from his pocket and opened one. Zussman could see he'd penciled some notes beside some names. He pointed to a name on his father's list, far down the page. "Johan Strauss, born 1928."

Zussman pulled the list close. Johan Straus was the son of Karl and Marta Strauss. Marta was one of the daughters of Johan Martin Zussman, his father's uncle. The notes beside the young man's parents included a date in 1944 and the name Auschwitz. The same date was written beside the boy's grandfather's name. And some of that man's other children and spouses. Even one near Johan's younger sister, born in 1934.

He had known that these family members were likely dead but it still hit him hard. He'd never met them, but they were people his father loved, some he'd grown up with. They were the people in the photos back in his box. All dead the same day in the same place.

Pierson pointed to the young man, Johan, again. "He reported the others. He's not dead. And right now, if he's this Johan, he thinks he's lost his entire family. But he hasn't because I'm sitting across from you."

Zussman's mind was reeling. He thought of everything that boy would have gone through for most of his life. The segregation, the intimidation, the laws that took away citizenship, livelihoods, possessions, schools, homes. Then the ghettos, the trains, the camps, the selections, the separations, the starvation, the slave labor, the brutality, the inhumanity. "Where is he?" Zussman breathed.

"Bergen-Belsen in Germany."

But hadn't he been told that one was liberated? He felt cold all the sudden. His thoughts solidified. "I can't go to Germany."

"I'll be with you. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

The boy needed him, needed to know he still had family. But Germany. Going back there. The ship was there in the pier. His mother needed him home. He needed to be home. That boy had no home. "I don't even have a uniform; I don't have anything but a box and some letters."

"We'll get you a uniform. Both. 'Cause you're going to need to go home in your dress uniform like everyone else. I'll get you on the next ship. Colonel Davis gave me leave, and a jeep. We'll stock it up with food for the trip. We'll have guns and ammo. We'll go there and meet him, see if he's who we think he is, swap information and come back. You can do this."

Zussman wasn't so sure. He felt nauseous and his hands were clammy. Pierson put a hand on his arm. "Finish your breakfast. Take a walk and think about it. Meet me in your barracks in a half hour and let me know."

He left and Zussman rubbed a hand over his short-cropped hair. He took deep breaths to try and slow his breathing. Then he finished his hash browns. He wasn't going to leave food on the table.

When he returned to the barracks, his box was gone. In its place was a foot locker with his name on it. "Open it," Pierson said.

Zussman knelt down to open it. Inside he found his box of photos, his chocolate bars, and uniforms, a jacket, his ribbons, a canteen, and everything else he'd need to be kitted out for patrol. He dug through he box of photos and picked out a few to tuck into his satchel. I should let my mother know I won't be home just yet."

Pierson smiled. "The jeep waiting outside is ours. Take your time. Then we'll go see Colonel Davis."

The uniform, it turned out, was a little big on him. He wondered if the Army even had anything small enough to fit his tall but thin frame. He thought it would feel strange to put one on again but it just felt familiar. Old hat. There was no rifle in the foot locker, but he had a knife and a pistol. He felt a little better knowing he wouldn't be defenseless.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, son?" Colonel Davis asked.

"No, sir," Zussman admitted. "But I think I need to do it anyway."

Davis watched him for a few seconds. Then he looked at Pierson. "You'll make sure he gets back here in one piece."

"Yes, sir," Pierson promised.

Davis looked back to Zussman. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"Thank you, sir." Zussman and Pierson saluted again then left. The jeep was parked just outside.

Pierson handed him a key. "The crates have food in them, mostly MREs. Where were going, there are hungry people. People who would steal that food. You're in charge of it."

Zussman nodded and got in the passenger's seat. He noted two rifles there as he looked in back.

Pierson went on. "We're at the far western edge of France, so it'll take a while to cross the border. We'll stop at night at allied bases or at a hotel. Once in Germany, we'll need to be cautious. Stay near our troops as much as possible. There are reports of some guerilla resistance. Nazi holdouts who didn't honor the surrender. It's rare, but we need to keep our ears and eyes open."

Zussman nodded, and tried to tamp down the fear he felt. He wasn't even out of France yet. But the drive through France began to lull him out of that fear as it passed by the jeep. He saw some destruction and it reminded him of the fighting he and Daniels did here, racing against that train. This time, crossing France, he stayed awake.

They stopped at Bastogne for the night. Zussman remembered being here briefly before he was rushed off to Paris. Walking through the base with Pierson, he felt like he was very conspicuous. The only concentration camp survivor on base. But no one looked askance at him. Pierson got them a couple cots for the night, and they found dinner at a little café in town. They weren't the only soldiers there.

While they waited for their food, Zussman took a few photos from his satchel.

"Who's who?" Pierson asked.

Zussman checked the names on back. He showed Pierson the photo of an older pair of gentlemen with his father in 1922. "This is my father," he said, pointing to the younger man in the center. "A week before my parents left for America." He pointed to the man on the left side of the photo. He was wearing his First World War uniform. "My grandfather," he told Pierson, "and my great-uncle Martin Zussman." He said the name as Zoossmahn, the more German pronunciation, because that is what it would be to the brothers, Martin and Karl Zussman.

"My grandfather fought in 1918, here in France," Pierson commented.

Zussman sighed. "My grandfather was at the Austrian front, on the German side."

"I'd imagine so," Pierson agreed, "since he was German."

Zussman appreciated that Pierson wasn't holding that against him-or his grandfather. He thought about the letters from family before the war. "At first, his veteran status exempted him from some of the anti-Jewish laws. Papa said that was why he couldn't talk the rest of the family into leaving. By the time they realized Papa was right, it was too late. The Nazis wouldn't let them leave."

"It's going to hurt your dad when he finds out," Pierson warned.

Zussman nodded. "Yeah, but I think they already suspect it."

"It's different when you know for sure."

Zussman nodded again. He picked out the picture of Karl and Marta Strauss and their two children, dated 1936. The little girl was only a toddler. He pointed to the little boy. "This is Johan. He's only eight here. That's his little sister, Elsa." There was a little puppy between her legs.

"His parents then?" Pierson asked. "His mother was beautiful."

"She'd be my dad's cousin. She was the youngest of Martin Zussman's kids."

Pierson frowned. "Looking at their names on a list is one thing, seeing their faces is another. I'm glad your parents had those photos. Can't imagine any remain in Germany."

Their food arrived, and since it was a small table, Zussman put the photos away. They didn't talk much after that. Zussman concentrated on the food. He thought about the newspapers from those years. The pictures of synagogues burning and shop windows broken on Kristallnacht. The laws that took away schools and jobs and even that puppy in the photo. He just didn't understand how anyone could look at that little girl and hate her enough to kill her. Metz was one of those who would have. He was glad his parents left when they had.

They wanted an early start in the morning so they found their tent and went to bed.

* * *

Zussman was already awake when Pierson woke up. "You sleep okay?" he asked.

"Not for a long time," Zussman told him. "Not last night."

Pierson nodded. He got up and started gathering his gear so Zussman did the same. "Remember what I told you about Kasserine?"

Zussman was surprised by the question. "Yes."

"I still see them when I sleep sometimes."

Zussman nodded. They understood each other and that was all they could do to help. One couldn't change another's dreams.

They crossed the bridge at Remagen, and this time Zussman got to see it. He could see men repairing it under the watchful eyes of Army engineers. There were large holes in the roadbed but they were patched. Zussman looked at the high towers on each side and imagined them with MG42s in the windows, snipers on the roofs. It must have been a tough fight.

Pierson must have guessed what he was thinking. "We fought our way forward here, then took those first towers. Then we had to fight our way over to the AA guns. Daniels manned that one." He pointed off to his right. "Luftwaffe was trying to finish the job of destroying the bridge, but we held them off 'til our flyboys arrived. The bridge was ours, so the four of us ignored orders and went lookin' for you."

Zussman smiled faintly. That dereliction of duty had saved his life. "Glad you did," he said. Then his smile faded as he realized they were now in Germany. His body tensed and he tried to tell himself he was still safe. There war was won and Pierson wouldn't let the Nazis take him again. The Allied forces were all over, occupying the country. But the tenseness refused to go away.

The road took him past little towns and villages, most in ruin. Some of the populace still there openly glowered at them as they passed. Others approached the jeep when it had to slow down. They asked for food or supplies. But Zussman had been withheld those things. "_Nein_," he told each of them and batted away that hands that came to close.

Pierson didn't judge. "Show the pistol if you have too. Just don't shoot unless..."

Zussman understood, unless they actually threatened him or attacked.

Finally they were in open country again. But now he could see the railroad tracks beside the road. That might have been the track that had taken him to Bad Orb. He didn't think they were far enough east to be near Berga. The memories didn't make a distinction.

They were five days on the train from Bad Orb to Berga. The train alternated between slow movement and no movement at all. And yet, the doors remained closed and locked. The straw littered on the floor lasted only so long in those conditions. The men in his car tried to keep their refuse to one corner, then one end. The straw ran out and men with letters from home had to sacrifice those precious pages to their baser needs for toilet paper.

The stench was horrendous. Some of them men vomited, so there was that, too. By the last day, they were dry heaving. There had been no food delivered, no water. All were weakened by the ordeal, which didn't serve them well for the conditions in the camp.

The road turned away from the railroad, and the memories relented in favor of the new scenery as they turned north.

* * *

Again they spent the night in a US Army base. But the next day, they crossed into the British zone. There was a short holdup at the border but they were cleared quickly and allowed to pass. That night they stayed in a Private Zimmer, which left Zussman far more uneasy.

The home owner was gracious, especially once she realized Zussman could speak German. Still, she spoke a mixture of English and German words. She led them to a room with two beds, a chair, and a small table. Pierson told Zussman to get some sleep. He sat at the table and started to clean his rifle.

Zussman closed his eyes and tried to slow the beating of his heart. One trick he'd learned in Berga was to count backwards from one thousand, spelling out each number slowly. One letter per movement of breath. O in, N out, E in, out and in as the end of a word. It was three movements for the end of a number and one for the hyphen between ninety-nine and such. He rarely got into the nine hundred eighties before falling asleep. Handy when he got to the barracks late, and was woken up so early.

This time he wasn't exhausted from the work or beatings. So he passed the nine hundred eighties but sleep came in the mid-nine seventies.

He awoke some time later when the door to the barracks was shoved open violently. The guard shouted, "_Raus, raus!_"

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the wan light coming through the curtained windows. Pierson seemed startled, too. He sat up in the chair and gripped his rifle. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Zussman looked to the still closed door of the little room they were in. "I was back there," he said as his breath evened out. "Sorry. You didn't even get in bed."

Pierson stretched. "Not in a German house. Just in case."

There was a knock on that door. A woman's voice. "_Frühstück in einer halben Stunde._" Her footsteps moved away. Another knock. "Breakfast _dreißig minuten_." And again farther away. Three rooms.

The two of them ventured out ten minutes later. They found a line formed at the washroom. Three British soldiers were there before them. The door to the washroom opened and produced a fourth. "Good morning," the soldier said in greeting as he passed the line on his way back to his room.

"What brings you yanks up here?" one of the other two asked.

"I heard the Frau speaking German to your door," the other said, eyeing them suspiciously. He had more of a Scottish brogue. "Yet those are yank uniforms."

"I speak German," Zussman admitted.

"Do you now?" the Scot asked.

"I'm from Chicago," Zussman added. He had enough drama going on inside him. He didn't want to start anything with these allies. "And I'm Jewish."

The other elbowed the Scot rather hard in the ribs. "Oh!" the Scot exclaimed. "Meant nothing by it."

"No offense taken," Zussman offered.

The door opened again, and now it was just the three of them. The Scot took another look at Zussman. "Don't they feed you in the US Army?"

Pierson handled that one. "The Germans didn't, when he was a POW."

The Scot's face went red. "I just keep sticking my foot right in my mouth, don't I then?"

The door opened. "I swear he only has half a brain and no sense whatsoever before he's had his morning coffee." The Scot hurried into the washroom. "He'll likely be more civilized at breakfast. See you gents there."

After they each had their turn in the washroom, they returned and tidied up their room. They took their things down to breakfast with them and stowed them under their chairs. The woman and two children brought rolls and various toppings of jam, cheese, ham, and fried eggs to the table. The British soldiers dug in as they'd eaten here before. Zussman found the offerings familiar, though his mother never served ham, of course. Pierson seemed the odd man out but he caught on quick.

Breakfast was pleasant. Soon all six of them were swapping stories of daring do, farcical or harrowing fighting. Zussman found himself joining in. He even told them about working with British Intelligence to take down the armored train. They seemed jealous not to be in Paris when it was liberated.

Zussman managed to remember he was a soldier and leave Berga behind for a little while. Until he caught a glimpse of the children staring at him. He tried to ignore them but he heard them whispering before their mother shooed them out of the doorway. The whispers were in German, but, of course, Zussman had understood. "He looks like a Jew," the boy had said.

"So what brings you by?" the ranking Brit, a lieutenant, asked Pierson. "If this one's been a POW, you should be getting him home."

Pierson smiled. "We intend to. We're going to stop by Bergen-Belsen first."

The Scot made a face. "Sightseeing? Kind of grim, isn't it?"

Pierson shook his head. "We've already seen a couple camps. It's the DP camp we're interested in. His folks had family here in Germany."

"Oh dear," the young man who'd made excuses for the Scot spoke up. "Jewish? You think you might have a survivor?"

"We hope so," Pierson said.

"Oy, good luck with that!" the Scot said, sincerely this time. "Our unit helped liberate that camp. Horrendous what Jerry did to those poor people."

That brought the banter to a halt. They all had a haunted look to their eyes, remembering. Zussman could relate, though his camp hadn't been the hellhole Auschwitz or Bergen-Belson had been. It was hell enough.

"I could live to be a thousand," the lieutenant said, "and never forget the sights I saw, the smells." He paused a moment then raised his cup of tea. "I hope you find who you're looking for. Let one poor bastard know they've still family after all."

"Here, here," the others joined in. So Pierson and Zussman raised their mugs and nodded. Then they all took a drink.

Zussman admitted to himself that he would have liked to see on those other camps. The ones worse than Berga. The civilian prisoners had been very thin for sure, but not walking skeletons. The Germans still killed a lot of them, but there were no gas chambers. And from what he'd heard, many of the death marches ended up in Bergen-Belsen. He knew the cruelty of the Nazis, had even lived some of it, but to see it on that scale, and then multiply that to millions of dead and dying prisoners... It was beyond his experience and even his imagination. Bergen-Belsen would have been more like Auschwitz, the camp that young man back in Berga had come from. A camp that made Berga seem like a step up.

Did his experience even count? To him, Berga had seemed hellish. People still died. Some of the civilians and nearly half of the POWs. Zussman himself had nearly died at least three times because of that camp and his treatment in it. And Metz had come to Bad Orb looking for Jewish prisoners to put to work. Did that make him part of this whole attempt to exterminate the Jews of Europe?

He kept those thoughts to himself at breakfast. He and Pierson left right after. It took hours still to get to Bergen-Belsen, now called Hohne, by the British. Enough hours that the soldiers providing security there suggested they come back in the morning.

This time they got a room in a hotel in a nearby town. It wasn't fancy but there were plenty of American and British people there so that Zussman didn't feel as nervous about staying as he might if the other clients had been German. After securing the rooms, they explored the town. Much of it was still damaged from the war. The Germans who were out looked down when they walked past. Some were picking up debris, loose bricks and pieces of buildings. Zussman and Pierson returned to the hotel before it got dark.

Some of the other patrons had warned that the restaurants in town didn't have much to offer. So they took their locked food crates up to their room and ate there. MREs weren't great, but they were a feast compared to the food in Berga, so Zussman didn't mind. They kept their door locked, which Zussman appreciated.

Pierson went to sleep early. He asked Zussman to wake him at midnight. Zussman appreciated his willingness to keep watch. It probably wasn't necessary. They were in a locked hotel room surrounded by rooms of other allies. It was very unlikely that anything would happen.

Zussman could tell himself logically that he was as safe as he could be in Germany now that the war was over. But no amount of logic was making him feel safe. He still feared a jackbooted Nazi soldier would bust down the door, gun drawn, and shoot him. Or that a sniper might sight him through the window. Or maybe the hotel staff has marked him as a Jew and would kidnap him so they could take him into the woods and shoot him.

To try to stop those thoughts, he pulled out his pictures, reread his letters. He wrote a letter first to Daniels to tell him what he was doing instead of heading home. Then he wrote another to his mother, though he figured he'd hand it to her himself when he got home. He told her all about Germany now, as he saw it from the jeep, in the Private Zimmer, here in the hotel. He wrote about the suspicious children, the defeated posture of those in town.

And he wrote her his story, on separate pages. He told her about Metz's visit to Bad Orb, the train, the work, the beatings, the food, the friends dying, the small ways the medics helped him, the burning of her letter. The separation as the camp was emptied. The shooting in the woods when he thought he'd died. His return to bad Orb, waking up from surgery, the pneumonia, the long days in the hospital, and his walks with Pierson.

His dreams that night were milder than usual. He was still in Berga, but it was more the routine and less the beatings, the threats and insults of Metz. It was rising before dawn, drinking weak ersatz coffee, eating horrid bread, then marching in the cold, working in the dust, trudging back to the barracks, standing to be counted, then collapsing exhausting on the hard bunks in the barracks just to do it all over again the next day and the next day. When Pierson woke him with a hand on his arm, he didn't feel rested, but he didn't' jump or get startled.

He yawned and Pierson asked, "Didn't sleep well?"

"Dreamt I was exhausted," Zussman replied, yawning again.

"Well, let's see if we can't find some breakfast then head to the camp. Maybe that'll wake you up."

There was a little café in the town. It was crowded with British soldiers. The staff went out of their way to be kind and gracious. When Pierson went to pay for the meal, the owner wouldn't have it. Zussman had seen him looking at him. Maybe he, too, had guessed he was Jewish, and, being this close to the notorious concentration camp, thought better of not giving a Jew in his shop preferential treatment. This one time, discrimination had worked to Zussman's advantage.

When they reached the camp they were directed to the Jewish leader of the Central Committee of Liberated Jews in the DP camp. Josef Rosensaft did not attempt to speak English but he had another young man beside him who did. Mr. Rosensaft did speak Yiddish, so Zussman was able to follow some of what he said. It was just easier to listen to the translation.

Pierson told them they were looking for a survivor named Johan Strauss.

After the translation, Rosensaft looked at them sternly and with suspicion.

"What do you want with him?" the translator relayed in a British accent.

"We think Private Zussman here may be related," Pierson told them.

Rosensaft relaxed. "Why do you think this?"

Pierson pulled his copy of the list from his pocket and showed them. "His parents left Stuttgart in '22. This is his father's extended family."

"My mother prepared the list," Zussman added.

Rosensaft looked over the list. Then he walked out from behind his desk. He led them out of this office into a side room with a table and chairs. He stepped to talk to a woman who was working as a secretary. She left and came back a minute later.

"Please," the translator said. "What here. We will bring him to you. Be sure before giving him a false hope in a family that's not dead."

"Of course," Zussman assured him.

"Do you need a translator?"

"I speak German," Zussman replied. "If he's from Stuttgart, so does he."

The man nodded. He turned to Pierson. "Mr. Rosensaft would like to speak with you further, Sergeant."

Pierson looked to Zussman then shrugged. Zussman nodded. Jewish survivors were not a security risk. He understood their initial trepidation. Soldiers were coming for one of their own, after the persecution they had suffered.

So Pierson left with the translator and Zussman waited. He opened his satchel and pulled out the pictures he'd brought and his own lists from his mother's letter. After about fifteen minutes, the door opened and a young man entered. Zussman stood and the boy eyed him warily, until he looked at the name on Zussman's uniform.

"_Der Name meines Großvaters war Zussman._"

Zussman indicated the next chair over. "_Deshalb wollte ich mit dir reden._"

Johan sat. Zussman asked if he knew his grandfather's first name. He didn't. He was a child before the war and only called him _Opa_.

"_Der Name deiner Mutter?_"

"_Marta Zussman, bevor sie meinen Vater heiratete,_" Johan said. "_Du kennst meinen Namen. Wie heißt du?_"

"Robert Zussman," Zussman replied, "_genau wie mein Vater. Der Name deines Vater?_"

"_Karl Strauss,_" Johan answered. "_Ich hatte auch eine Schwester._"

"Elsa?" Zussman asked.

When Johan nodded Zussman showed him a photo. The one that had his parents and his sister, and that little puppy.

Tears welled up in Johan's eyes. He held out a shaky hand. "_Darf ich?_"

"_Natürlich_." Zussman handed him the photo. Johan held it as if it were a precious gem. Tears fell down his cheeks.

"_Wo hast du das gefunden?_"

"_Ihr Großvater hat es 1936 an meinen Vater geschickt._"

Johan looked up from the picture. His eyes had gone wide. "_Ihr Großvater und mein Großvater waren Brüder?_"

Zussman smiled and nodded.

"_Du bist americanisch._"

Zussman nodded again. "_Meine Eltern verließen Stuttgart im Jahr 1922. Sie leben in Chicago._"

"_Ich habe einen Onkel in Chicago?_" Johan wiped his tears.

"_Und einen Cousin genau hier._ Zussman put the picture of his own family on the table. He pointed to himself as a little boy.

Johan stood up abruptly so Zussman stood, too. Johan pulled him into a bear hug and started crying in full. Zussman just held him. Johan was just a kid when he went through hell and lost just about everyone he ever knew. He was still a kid. Just seventeen.

After he had a good cry, he broke the hug and apologized as he wiped his eyes and sat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

"_Das ist nicht nötig,_" Zussman told him.

"_Du bist schmal für einen Soldaten, nein?_" Johan asked, changing the subject.

"_Ich hatte meine eigenen Probleme mit den Nazis_," Zussman replied. "_Es war nicht Auschwitz, aber es hätte mich fast umgebracht._"

Johan looked at him for a few moments. "_Ich kann es in deinen Augen sehen. Ich bin auch schmal. Wir werden trotzdem wachsen._"

Zussman nodded. "_Ja wir werden. Meine Mutter wird sich darum kümmern, wenn ich nach Hause komme._"

"_Deine Eltern haben mehr Briefe von meinem Großvater?_"

Zussman nodded again. "_Mama hat sie alle behalten. Ich glaube, sie hat Chanukka-Karten von deiner Mutter._"

Johan looked sad again. "_Ich wünschte, ich könnte sie lesen._"

Zussman took hold of both his shoulders. "_Ich weiß nicht, was du vorhast,_" he told the younger man. "_Aber du hast eine Familie in Chicago. Vergiss das nie._"

Johan nodded. "_Ich habe an Palästina gedacth._" Johan admitted. "_Veilleicht werde ich über Amerika nachdenken._"

Zussman took out a piece of paper and a pen from his bag. He wrote on it his parent's names and address in Chicago. "_Sie würden sich sehr freuen, von Euch zu hören._"

Johan asked him many questions about Chicago, his parents, and his childhood. Zussman answered what he could and shared more pictures.

* * *

Pierson was surprised that Rosensaft wanted to see him. But he just spoke to the translator rather than speaking directly to him. Finally, the translator spoke. "Come with me, please." He began to leave the office.

Pierson followed, but if this hadn't been a DP camp, he wouldn't have left Zussman alone. "Uh, where're we goin?"

"Mr. Rosensaft says there is another survivor from Stuttgart here. Maybe she has more knowledge of the people on your lists."

Pierson pulled those lists from his pocket. "I have his mother's side, too. And some friends. What's your name?"

"Petr," the man replied. It almost sounded like Petter, but there was a lot less space between the t and the r. "I was studying English and German in Charles University before the Germans invaded Czechoslovakia."

"You speak it very well," Pierson told him as they left the building. "Foreign languages aren't so big in American schools."

"America has been isolationist for much of its past," Petr said. "Only very large wars have brought you out."

Pierson nodded. "True. Things may change after this very large war." Pierson started to hear music as they approached another building. Classical music.

"Sofi Bergman plays the clarinet," Petr told him. "This saved her life."

Pierson didn't understand. "How?"

"There were orchestras in Auschwitz. One for men and one for women. They played marches as the workers went in and out, but also concerts for the Germans."

"Huh? I did not know that," Pierson admitted. He thought he remembered a Sofi on one of the lists. But he didn't recognize Bergman. They went inside and sat down until the rehearsal was finished and the orchestra-it was larger than he expected-packed up. Then Petr motioned that he should stay. So Pierson stayed put as Petr approached one of the clarinet players. As they spoke together she looked over at Pierson. He saluted with two fingers to his temple just to acknowledge and hopefully convey that he was friendly. She and Petr walked back his way. He stood and offered her his hand.

She took it and shook it briefly before pulling it back. She said something in German and Petr translated. "You have lists of people from Stuttgart she can maybe help with?"

Pierson nodded and offered her the seat next to him. "Yes. A member of my squad, Private Zussman, his parents moved from Stuttgart to America. We're hoping to find information about their families and friends still in Germany when the war started." He handed her the three lists.

Petr stood behind them and continued translating.

She put the first page to the back of the pack. Pierson had recognized it as the friends. She spent some more time with the family tree lists. But she put the father's list away pretty quick, too. Probably because he'd already scribbled information for them. Then she set the lists in her lap. "Oh, Zussman!" she exclaimed. The translator shared her words. "I have a vague memory of that name."

Pierson felt good about that. It was a start. She picked up the father's list again but started shaking her head lightly as she read it more carefully. She still had short hair though she had tried to dress it up with a ribbon across her crown and tied behind her neck. She was thin, maybe in her thirties, though her face had a few more lines from all she'd suffered. Her whole demeanor changed when she switched pages. She sat up straighter and looked closely at the page.

"You know someone there?" Pierson asked.

Petr didn't quite have the same emotions in his translations of her reply. "I know me there."

"_Und meine Mutter._"

"And my mother." Pierson hadn't needed the translation that time.

"_Meine Großmutter und meine Tanten_," she added. She dropped the pages again.

"My grandmother and my aunts," Petr said. He was smiling now.

She spoke more rapidly now, looking forward as if staring into the past. Peter translated quietly as she spoke. "I remember a wedding. My aunt's wedding. I was a little girl. I held the flowers. She married a man, a Zussman, and moved to America." She flipped to the previous list. "Robert Zussman. I remember."

So she was that Sofi, but a little girl then. She had obviously grown up, married, and taken the name of her husband.

She held the lists to her chest. "_Dein Zussman ist heir?_"

Pierson nodded. She looked to Petr. Petr smiled broadly. "Come," he said and they both stood.

Pierson introduced himself properly on the way back to the Council's office. "Sergeant William Pierson," he said, offering his hand again.

"Sofi Bergman," she said, smiling now but with unshed tears in her brown eyes. "_Ich dachte, ich wäre jetzt alleine auf der Welt._"

Petr translated and Pierson smiled. She wouldn't be alone in the world anymore.

She stopped suddenly and pointed to the lists again as she spoke.

"All are dead now," Petr repeated in English. "My parents, my aunts and cousins, my husband, my daughter."

She'd had a child. Pierson's chest hurt just then. "I'm so sorry," he said.

She sighed then started walking again, clutching the lists again her chest.

Rosensaft was waiting to greet them in the outer office. He and Sofi kissed cheeks in greeting then spoke together in Yiddish, Pierson guessed. Petr didn't translate. Rosensaft smiled and touched her shoulder. He led them all to the side office where Zussman was meeting with Johan. But when they went inside, Petr introduced her to both Zussman and the young man.

Sofi pulled one of the pages from her chest and looked it over. She looked at Zussman and spoke in German. "_Er ist also auch dein Verwandter._"

"_Auch?_" Zussman's eyes went wide.

She moved to his other side and showed him the second list. "_Deine Mutter?_" she asked as she pointed to a name.

"_Ja,_" Zussman replied. He looked at the list then pointed to another name. "_Deine Mutter?_"

A tear slid down Sofi's cheek but she smiled. "_Ja, ich bin diese Sofi._" She put the papers on the table, then took Zussman's face in her hands. "_Du bist so jung, aber du bist meine Cousine._"

"_Ich bin auch sein Cousin,_" Johan said, "_auf der Seite seines Vaters._"

Pierson wasn't getting translations now but he thought he caught the gist. He motioned to Petr and they stepped out to let the family get acquainted.

"You came for one," Petr said. "But you find two."

"Less than we hoped for," Pierson admitted, "but two more than we thought we'd find."

"German Jews suffered the longest," Petr said. "Very few survived. Johan was young, strong enough to work, so they kept him for slave labor. Sofi was saved for the orchestra. If she had not played, she would have been gassed with her child."

Pierson didn't understand that. "She would be young enough for work, wouldn't she?"

"Nazis killed mothers with their children," Petr explained. "Kept them both calm before the gas."

Pierson's chest hurt again. It burned in anger. "They should rot in hell for what they've done!" he said through clenched teeth.

Petr nodded. "I agree." There was a steely tone in his voice. "When I leave here, I will never speak German again."

"You were in Auschwitz, too," Pierson guessed, remembering how he'd described the orchestras there.

"I worked the ramp. Telling new arrivals to leave their bags, men to one side, women and children to the other, translating for the Nazis. I told some to say that they were older, some younger, that twins were a good thing. I remembered Sofi. I made her leave her clarinet. I told her to tell the Nazi doctor that she played."

"But her daughter?" Pierson still hurt to think of that little girl.

"Probably, she went with her grandmother to the other side."

"The other side?"

Petr pointed one way. "_Links, Tod._" He pointed to his right. "_Rechts, Leben._ One goes to the gas, the other into the camp."

Pierson didn't know what to say. "I saw Ordruff and Buchenwald. Dead people on the roads from long marches."

"There were hundreds of camps," Petr told him. "In Germany, in Poland, the Netherlands, France, Czechoslovakia. Auschwitz was just the biggest. All of them were death."

Pierson nodded. "I saw a little one, too. Berga. Not far from Buchenwald." He almost told him about the POWs but thought better of it. It was a long story and would only cause questions the Army didn't want him to answer. "It's all so wrong."

"It was like the world was inside out," Petr said. "Or upside down. Bad was good and good was a crime. To help a Jew was a death sentence. To be a Jew was a death sentence. To help the resistance, the same. But to denounce your neighbor? That was rewarded."

Pierson had trouble imagining living in that. "I'm sorry," he told Petr.

Petr shook his head. "The Germans should be sorry. The collaborators. But you Americans, the Allies? You defeated the Nazis, liberated the camps, made it possible for some to live again in a right-side-up world. Good is good again."

Pierson nodded. "Let's hope it stays that way." He looked back at the room where Zussman was getting to know his extended family. "Do you know where I can get a camera?"

Petr thought for a moment. "This is in short supply but I know a man with a camera. You want photos so they can remember?"

"Yeah," Pierson said. "One for each of them. So Zuss can show his parents and Sofi and Johan can have them to hold on to."

"Just a moment." Petr left to talk to Rosensaft. He returned after a few minutes. "We think Otto is in the dark room. Come."

Pierson followed and they found Otto hanging up some wet pictures. Petr explained and Otto smiled. He took of his apron and grabbed his camera. "_Wspaniale!_"

* * *

By the time he and Zussman left that afternoon, they all had a fresh photo in their hands. The two cousins had an address in Chicago for letters and promises were made to keep each other updated of any future moves. Pierson saw Zussman smiling, a lot, and it held even for the few miles back to the hotel. They had MREs for dinner again there. Pierson asked Zussman if he wanted to sleep first this time.

Zussman shook his head. "I have another letter to write."

"We'll head back first thing in the morning," Pierson told him. "You got to get that photo back to your mom."

Zussman looked at him for a moment. "I'm glad you asked me to stay," he said. "They weren't real people to me before, you know. Now, even though most of them are gone, they're very real."

"Yeah," Pierson agreed. "Names on a list to me. Now I wonder about every name, and every name that wasn't there. Like Sofi's husband and daughter."

"Abram Bergman," Zussman told him. "And Greta. She was three."

There was that pain again. Pierson sighed. "I don't know how they go on with so much pain and grief."

"There was this kid in Berga," Zussman said, sitting down on the bed. "He thought Berga was easy. Compared to where he'd been before: Auschwitz. He told me about the gas chambers, experiments on prisoners. But it was full-on hell to me. We were stronger, you know, going in. But one month in and we started dyin'. He survived. At least until the camp was evacuated, marched out. The day I would have died, if you guys hadn't found me when you did."

Pierson sat beside him. "If we'd been just a few minutes sooner, we might have saved the other four."

"The others were just ten minutes away," Zussman added. "But we can't live on what-ifs. Metz promised me I'd die before I left that camp. You broke his promise."

Pierson chuckled. "Well, I'm happy about that. You'd better get to writing. I think it's going to be a long letter."

Author's note: This was a long one. I just couldn't find a better place to break the chapter. By the way, Rosensaft was a real person and I apologize for taking artistic license with him. I meant no disrespect. Petr, Sofi, and Johan are all fictional. I lived in the Czech Republic for a year and fell in love with it. I had to throw a Czech in there.


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Home

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Thirteen: Home**

A week later, Pierson was pinning his purple heart onto Zussman's dress uniform. Colonel Davis even gave another speech to him and the other soldiers going home. Pierson stayed after to see him off. Zussman handed him an envelope, and the once taciturn sergeant gave him a brief hug before stepping to offer a salute which Zussman returned. Then Pierson grabbed a passing private. "You! Make sure he gets a good bunk."

"Yes, Sergeant," the private replied. Zussman laughed and introduced himself as the two of them approached the gangplank. They became friends on the trip back to the States. Not good friends. Not friends that exchanged addresses before they disembarked, but comrades for the journey. Zussman didn't mention Berga but tried to act happy like the other soldiers. He was happy. Just not all happy.

And he was very surprised to see someone holding up a sign with his name as he pushed past the families greeting soldiers there at the harbor in New York. It took him a beat to recognize Aiello out of uniform.

"What are you doing here?" Zussman asked after they greeted each other.

"Didn't think you could pass through New York without seein' me, did you?"

Zussman smiled. "Pierson."

"I might have received a telegram." Aiello took his back. "We'll get you homeward bound tomorrow. Train, bus, whatever you want."

"Bus," Zussman said. He remembered his last train ride and didn't need a long reminder. The sun was setting past the towering skyscrapers to the west. "Where do I stay exactly?"

"With us, of course," Aiello said, as they started walking away from the crowded harbor.

"Us?" Zussman asked, wanting some clarification.

"Me and mom," Aiello replied.

"The mom who taught you to never trust a Jew."

Aiello stopped and Zussman stopped, too. "You'll hear nothing of the sort, I promise. She's seen the papers, the newsreels. It sickened her. Besides she's been workin' on her spaghetti sauce all day."

Zussman started again in the direction they'd been going. "All day?"

Aiello chuckled and caught up. "You can't rush a spaghetti."

* * *

After dinner was done, Aiello's mom insisted that Frank could sleep on the sofa and wouldn't take any argument from Zussman, so he relented. He was more stuffed than he'd ever been in his life. Stuffed enough to feel sick and never want to look at food for at least a week. And it felt good!

Mrs. Aiello was a gracious host. Zussman didn't even know if she knew he was Jewish. And she insisted he place a call to his mother to let her know he was back on American soil, he'd be home in a few days, and where the bus would drop him off. Aiello had worked it all out before he'd come to the harbor to meet Zussman's ship.

In the morning, Mrs. Aiello clucked about him being too thin and packed him some food for the trip. Aiello took him to the bus station and sent him on his way. When Zussman opened that food for lunch, he found a list of addresses. One in Queens, one in Philly, and one in Longview he already knew by heart.

Finally, the food ran out and there was a familiar skyline out the bus window. He was almost home. He saw his father out that window, too, as the bus pulled into the station. Zussman gave him a big hug and his father told him his mother was furiously cleaning the apartment for him. They held each other there in the station for several minutes.

"What happened to you, Robbie?" his father whispered into his ear.

"Later," Zussman whispered back. "Just please take me home."

His father kissed his cheek then bent to pick up his bag. They took the L back to his neighborhood. Zussman gripped the sides of his seat and told himself it wasn't like the train. It had lots of windows and moved fast. But his grip wouldn't let up. His father must have noticed because he put a hand on top of Zussman's the rest of the way. They reached their stop and Zussman was quick to grab his bag and sling it over his shoulder. He left the station and took a deep breath. It even smelled like home. It was a short walk to their building. His dad tried to take the bag so they both carried it up the stairs. He took it as his father opened the door.

His mother was in the kitchen, but she turned toward the door when it opened. She hurriedly dried her hands on a kitchen towel and ran over to pull him into her arms. Zussman dropped the bag and held her. She smelled like warm, baked bread. Her tears wet the shoulder of his uniform. Finally she stepped back and held his shoulders. "So thin, Robbie!"

Zussman just nodded. He wasn't sure how to begin now. He had written his story back in Germany before they went to Bergen-Belsen. He had meant it for his mother. But he had changed his mind back in Le Havre. He'd copied it out and put it in two envelopes. One he sent to Daniels and one he left with Pierson. They both deserved to know. "After breakfast?" he asked, his voice a little shaky. He wanted to tell them.

"Of course, of course. She took his hand and led him to the dining table. "Sit, I'll fix you something."

It was a little strange, hearing her speak English with her heavy German accent at home. But he understood it. After what the Nazis had done, he didn't want to speak German either.

It was only a few minutes before she put fresh rolls on the table, then jam, butter, scrambled eggs, and milk for each of them. "Eat, eat," she said. It was the best meal he'd had since Berga. Oh, he'd had the eggs and rolls in the Private Zimmer, but these were his mother's rolls and he felt he could even taste the love she'd baked into them. These rolls were home.

They ate without much talking, but his mother wouldn't take her eyes off him. When they were done, she cleaned the table then sat down again.

Zussman pulled a photograph from his breast pocket. "Before I tell you about me," he said. "I want to tell you about them." He handed the photo to his mother first. "They're all we could find. Sofi Bergman held the flowers at your wedding." He looked to his father. "Johan Strauss is your great cousin Marta's son."

"Marta had two children," his mother said. The worry in her voice told him she already guessed.

"They killed children, Mama," he told her softly. "Sofi had a little daughter. Sofi only survived because she played the clarinet. Johan was selected for work. They both survived Auschwitz. They are the in the DP camp at Bergen-Belsen now."

Mama handed the photo to Papa. "All the others?" Papa asked. "You're certain?"

"They were certain," Zussman replied. "They both thought they had no family left."

Mama put her hand over his. "You gave them family again."

"They're our family," he agreed. "Their stories are worse than mine. What I tell you about mine, you can't share. The Army doesn't want us telling anyone. The others had to sign a document swearing not to tell anyone. I didn't, so I'll tell you. But I don't want to get the others in trouble."

"Okay, Robbie," his mother said.

He looked at the table, stared at the lines in the wood. He couldn't look at either of them, not where he was going. They both scooted their chairs closer to him.

"I was sent to Bad Orb, Stalag XI-B, after I was captured in December. It was okay, mostly boring. But one day in February, this Nazi came to camp looking for Jews. The prisoner leadership decided to defy orders and not hand anyone over. But they rounded up three hundred fifty or so likely suspects and lined us up near the railroad tracks. They had cattle cars waiting. This Nazi-Sergeant Erwin Metz-said he needed workers, Jews. So we dropped our dog tags in the snow. He tells the guy next to me to show him the Jews. When he doesn't, Metz shoots him, right in the head. He was gonna do it to some else, so I got his attention.

* * *

_"_Frag mich doch du Nazi Stück Scheiße._" That did it. The Nazi walked back to him. _

_"_Du sprichst Deutsch. Ausgezeichnet._" Zussman kept his gaze straight ahead, right over the bastard's shoulder. "_Wer sind die Juden?"

"Fick dich!_" That did it. The gun was pointed at him now. _

_"_Zeig es mir!_" _

_Now he looked right in that ugly, scarred face. "We're Americans. Period." _

_There was no bullet. What he got instead was a pistol grip to the temple. He saw stars and fell to the ground. Before he could get his breath back, the Nazi kicked him hard the ribs then stomped just as hard on his chest. _

_"_Setz sie alle in den Zug!_" _

_He was dragged to this feet and drug to the open door of one of the cattle cars. Fellow prisoners helped ease him in. The Nazi was still out there. Zussman could still perhaps get something from him. "_Wohin bringt ihr uns?_" _

_"_Ihr seid zum Arbeiten hergekommen und das werdet ihr auch tun!" _" Metz spat back. Zussmen knew then that they were all in trouble. _

_Five days on that damn train. No food, no water, no toilet. It was miserable and it left them all in a weak state when they finally reached the squalid little _Arbeitslager_. They were led to their new homes, wooden barracks with little more than wooden slats covered with thin straw mats and rough, threadbare blankets. They were each given a metal bowl and nothing else. They were woken up the next morning before the sun had even risen. _

_They got something the Germans called coffee that didn't taste at all like coffee. Then they were assigned to work. Twelve hour shifts in the tunnels, seven days a week, no days off. The tunnels were dug into the side of a hill. German civilian engineers blew a section with dynamite, and the prisoners were made to scoop up the resulting debris. They were given no masks or filtration for the slate dust that obscured even the man standing right beside them. They put the debris onto flatbed carts and dragged the carts to the Elster River to dump them. _

_That first day, he found out that Metz had not been that impressed with his German. Rather, he was very unimpressed by what he'd said in German. He directed one of the younger guards to hit Zussman. The rifle butt to the midsection doubled him over and made him slightly nauseous, though there wasn't anything in his stomach to throw up. It hurt a great deal and drove him to his hands and knees in the snow. He felt a hand on his arm try to help him up. But that arm was ripped away and the rifle butt found his chest this time. He fell again and struggled to get his breath back. He nearly threw up anyway. He saw the legs of his fellow prisoners march by. He didn't see Metz bend down but his voice was quiet and quite near. "_Wer ist jetzt das Stück Scheiße, Jude?_" _

_Zussman was sure he was going to die then. But it didn't happen. "_Steh auf!_" Metz commanded. Not particularly wanting to die after all, Zussman did as he was told. It took a while, and he was dizzy with pain and hunger, but he stood. "_Und hilf ihm in keiner Weise_" _

_So Zussman walked. He tried to do it in steady movements, but he was so tired, hungry, and now dizzy that he nearly fell down again. He barely managed to keep his feet. Metz walked away and the guard prodded him in the back. He had hoped to go straight to the barracks but the Germans weren't done with the POWs yet. He was put in line with the others as the Nazis walked to and fro counting and counting. For some reason it took another thirty minutes or more to finish the count of three hundred fifty prisoners. They were then their evening rations: a loaf of bread for each eight men and an awful, watery 'soup'. No one touched him or spoke to him until they were inside the barracks, and the doors were locked from the outside. _

_A medic approached, and introduced himself as Anthony Acevedo. "Guess he holds a grudge." He helped him onto a bunk. _

_Zussman didn't answer. He just wanted to sleep. _

_"Stay strong, Zussman." Acevedo patted him on the shoulder and left him for his own bunk. _

_The second day, Metz claimed he'd been shirking from the work. The third day, he'd been sloppy. Another time, he claimed that Zussman had back talked one of the German engineers, though he hadn't said a single word to anyone. He was too busy coughing up the slate dust to speak, too thirsty to even move his parched tongue. _

_Each morning, Metz came to the sick call to judge the sick or the healthy enough to work by the look of their tongues. Zussman knew better than to even bother with sick call. _

_A month in, people started dying. One of the medics complained to Metz about the violation of the Geneva Conventions. He got a day in the tunnels for his audacity. The medics were the food gatherers. They had little in the way of supplies to address the ailments that proliferated in the men. Day after day, shift after shift, the men were ground down. It took all their strength and left them quiet and isolated in their own cares. Malnutrition, pneumonia, heart attacks. Some men just gave up. Some who were deemed healthy by the look of their tongues were dead the next day after having to work in those tunnels. Others who were sick were sent away, supposedly to hospitals somewhere. The Germans were deathly afraid of typhus and other contagious diseases. The dead each morning, however, meant nothing to them. _

_Zussman became one of those men so absorbed in keeping himself alive that he didn't talk to the others except when he was needed to explain German orders. Only the medics really seemed to care for others. They didn't have it easy, but they didn't work in the tunnels. They tried, with what little they had, to make things better. _

_Like the night Acevedo approached him with nine one-inch strips of blanket. He wrapped them around Zussman's chest under his shirt It wasn't much for padding, as thin as those blankets were. But it helped a little, kept him just a bit warmer, and was thin enough that Metz never caught on that it was there. _

_Zussman's hatred for Metz kept him going. It got him up from the beatings and through the long counts in the cold. It even helped him stay warm. His anger was like a ball of fire in his chest. That was why Metz had promised him he'd get rid of the 'Fuck you' expression from his face and promised him he'd die in the camp. But 'Fuck you' was the reply in his head to anything Metz said. _

_And that's how things went until the Red Cross packages were finally distributed. Every day they worked, except Easter Sunday. Every day he was beaten. Every day he was late to the count or just late enough to be led straight to the locked barracks. The guard would unlock it, throw him in, and lock it again. Every day, he'd kept his tongue, but glared and thought 'Fuck you' to Metz. He hated that bastard with every fiber of his being, and he was determined to survive and not let that monster break him. _

_But that night, when the letters came, when the food came. That was too much. While the others ate, he had to stand at attention in front of Metz. His mother's words were so close he could have read them if there had just been more light. But the flames took them away, scattering them into ash that wafted away in the cold wind. And he felt something inside him break. The ball of anger burned out. Or maybe it was swallowed by the hole in his stomach that ached and ached for a real meal. _

_Lights out was called and he was allowed to go back to the barracks. He stumbled in and climbed to his bunk with difficulty. That hole in his stomach felt like it would swallow him in his sleep. And he thought that maybe that was for the best. _

_Then someone tucked something into his hand before walking away. Zussman couldn't see what it was. The only windows were high on the walls. But he could smell it, feel the consistency. Meat. Someone had given up a few bites of spam from their pack. It quieted his stomach enough to fall asleep. It was the only food he'd had that day. _

_The rest of the days were a blur but it didn't matter. There was a rhythm, a pattern to it. Wake up, 'coffee', count, march, work, beating, stumble back, count, eat a little bread and foul soup, sleep, do it all again the next day and the next day. Until April 6th. Zussman hadn't known it was April 6th. He wasn't even sure it was April. It was just a break in the routine. Line up, march out. "_Sie fünf. Halt,_" and "_Warten Sie zehn Minuten und schießen sie ab!_" _

_That was it. Metz was going to keep his promise. Zussman wouldn't leave Berga alive. He had a moment of clarity as the bullets rang out and the men to his left dropped to the ground. Why were they dying? Metz hadn't promised them. He tried to reason with the guard. "_Erschieß sie nicht. Erschieß mich._Daniels is dead. _Ich auch. Lass sie mit den anderen gehen._" But the sound of the gun so close to his ear deafened him, blinded him. He lost his balance and the guard shoved him down. He cried out because it hurt when he hit the ground with his shoulder, his, chest, his hip. _

_There was another shot and that was it. He was dead. Wasn't he? Must have been because Daniels was there. He's seen Daniels die. Pierson? Didn't sound like him._

* * *

"I don't remember much else, but I wasn't dead. Obviously. The guard was. Daniels had survived getting shot the day I was captured and Pierson had changed. I woke up in a clean bed with warm blankets and my own squad beside me. I was back in Bad Orb, but it was now held by the US Army. I was in and out of it for a few days, then I remember waking up again in a different bed. My stomach hurt and a doctor told me my spleen had ruptured. They'd had to do surgery. Daniels and the others had been ordered back to the front. I got a little better, so they sent me to a field hospital in France.

"Then I got pneumonia. I was sure I was going to die then. A lot of guys had died of pneumonia. But they sent me to a real hospital in Paris and the guys showed up again. They stayed with me, read to me, talked to me about what was going on in the war. And I got through it.

"But I still weighed less than a hundred pounds and wasn't strong enough to sit up, let alone walk. I was hungry all the time. But they had to start me slow, work me up to bigger meals and solid foods. A saw Acevedo again. He and the others had been marched a hundred and twenty miles! They weren't liberated until April 23rd. The hundred and seventy who survived anyway.

"And that's it. The war ended and we were all moved to Le Havre. The other guys went home. Pierson came every day and took me for walks as I got stronger and gained weight. I got my discharge papers but he asked me to stay, because he'd found Johan. So we went to Bergen-Belsen to meet him. The Jewish leader there knew another survivor from Stuttgart so Pierson went to meet her, see if she knew anything about your side of the family, Mama." Finally, he looked at her. Tears were staining her cheeks. "And she did. She remembered her aunt getting married and moving to America, and she saw her name, her parent's names, her grandparents' names on that list. They hadn't realized it was her because she had gotten married. She had taken her husband's name. But she was the Sofi on your list, Mama. That's how we found her. We gave them each a copy of that picture and our address. So they could remember."

Mama put her arm around him and pulled him close. Papa moved even closer and did the same. Zussman felt his own eyes fill with tears. He only realized now how starved he'd been for this, this love he felt in his parents' arms. They were together, the Berga POWs, in that hell, but each of them had been alone in their struggle to survive, driven to isolate themselves by the torture of the counting, the meagerness of the food, the exhaustion of the work, the cold, the sickness and the lice. Why had he lived anyway? The ones who died weren't beaten every day?

He picked up the picture again. "They had it worse. There were no selections to see who would die where I was. No gas chambers. And it was only two months. For them, it was years. For me, it was watching fellow POWs die, for them it was their mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, cousins, husbands, and kids. And now they have next to nothing. They can't go home. There's no home to go to."

"I am so proud of you, my son," Papa said.

For what? For cussing out a Nazi and getting punished for it daily? For giving up? For almost dying in a lesser camp in a shorter span of time?

"You survived," Mama said, as if she had guessed some of his thoughts, "and you came back to us. You survived everything they put you through. You are still here. And you brought us these two beautiful people who need us, our little family, to be their family now."

"Tomorrow is the Sabbath," Papa said. "We will say Kaddish for the others." He got up and came back with a handkerchief.

Zussman wiped his face. "Sometimes, when I sleep, I'm back there."

Mama kissed his forehead. "I would kiss away every nightmare like I did when you were a little boy. But you are a man now. I don't think it would work." She laughed a little, and Zussman chuckled too. If only it was that easy.

"We will do whatever we can to help," Mama said, serious again. "You may be a man but you'll always be my little boy."

Papa went to his bag by the door and picked it up. "Let's get you unpacked."

Mama kissed him one more time, but he got up and followed his father. His room was just as he'd left it what seemed like a lifetime ago. Papa placed his bag on his bed, and Zussman hung up his field uniform, and found places for everything else. Mama brought him a shoebox to keep his letters in.

Zussman changed into civilian clothes for the first time in over a year and realized he didn't know what he'd do now that he wasn't a soldier. Stiles would be a photographer, Aiello was a mechanic, and Daniels, a farmer. Pierson had stayed in the Army. Zussman hadn't thought of doing anything else but enlisting after high school.

When he rejoined his parents in the living room, his mother caught him up on all the goings on in the neighborhood. She jumped from one subject to other only to circle back around eventually. And he loved her for it.

Aurhor's note: I tried VERY hard to get exactly what the German dialogue was in the cut scene from Bad Orb in the game. Not easy. Because the subtitles are not exact translation and my German is mediocre at best. So I managed to find *Ausgezeichnet** which means "excellent" rather than "perfect" in the subtitles. That was my first clue. But the last sentence Metz says after Zussman asks where they're being taken, that was very difficult. It sounds like *Wir zeitz zum arbeiten gekommen, und das wer diet ja tun!**" But that translates into: "We came to work at this moment, and whoever does it." Which is totally off. Then I found a native German speaker willing to help. So it now matches the subtitle.


	14. Epilogue

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Epilogue**

It had been a long bus ride back to New York City. But Aiello was there to meet him just the same. Zussman smiled when he saw him.

"Eh! You've grown!" Aiello teased.

"Mama made sure of that," Zussman told him. "Looks like you've grown a bit, too."

Aiello patted his stomach and laughed. "Well, found me a good woman. Cooks almost as a good as my mama. What about you?"

"Maybe," Zussman hinted. But Lina wasn't a maybe. She was the reason he woke up every morning. She was the one he was going to marry, only she didn't know it yet. He'd bumped into her in the market one day, causing her to drop her produce. He was taken first by her beauty. But as she bent to pick them up, she exposed the tattooed number on her arm. He hurried to help her. Touched her arm briefly, offered to buy her a coffee to apologize. They were seeing each other, but she needed time to love and trust again. She had a story, too. And one day she'd share it with him, and he'd tell her his so she could know he understood at least some of her pain.

But that wasn't why he had come all the way to New York. "How is your mother? She managing now that you've got your own place?

Aiello shook his head. "That is not how an Italian family does things. Mama gets to relax a little more. But me and Lidia take care of her now." The streets were crowded but they found a cab to take them to the harbor. "I checked the papers. Dock twenty-three."

"I really thought Johan-I mean John-would go to Palestine," Zussman admitted.

"Everybody needs family," Aiello said. "Theirs is here. You ready for that? Two more people to worry about? You'll have to show them around, help them with the lingo, and all that."

"Mom and Dad can't wait," Zussman replied. Aiello paid the cabby and they got out. "They moved into a bigger apartment. Left the old one to me."

Aiello raised an eyebrow. "Now you're all alone?"

"Hopefully not for long."

"Hah!" Aiello clapped his back. "There is someone!"

A crowd was starting to gather. A large ship was pulled in at the dock. Some of its passengers were out on deck, waving. Others were unsure. Zussman wasn't sure he would recognize them. It had been two years. But that's why they had signs. They held them up as the passengers began to disembark. Zussman had Sofia's sign while Aiello had John's. They'd both been learning English in the DP camp, and they had wanted more English-sounding names. Sofia, in particular, didn't want to be German anymore.

Finally, they found them. Zussman put down the sign and hugged each of them. He introduced them to Aiello, saying he fought with him during the war.

"Welcome to America!" Aiello offered.

John was staring at the buildings. "This is big!"

"Biggest city in the whole country," Aiello told him. "Chicago's not exactly small, but it can't beat New York."

Zussman offered to carry Sofia's bag. Her hair had grown out, and she was wearing a nice dress and heels. He was sure her feet were sore from those shoes.

"We'll go to Chicago today?" she asked him.

"Not today," he told her. "It takes the bus a few days to get there."

"You'll stay at my place today," Aiello told them. "The ladies are making fettuccine Alfredo."

"Is that good?" John asked Zussman.

"Home-cooked Italian food is very good," Zussman told him. "We'll catch the bus tomorrow. I'm not so comfortable taking the train."

"Bus is good," Sofia said. "I don't like trains."

"We'll be hungry on the bus," John commented, worry dripping from his words.

"Not if Mama can help it," Aiello assured him.

"She provisioned me when I came home," Zussman agreed.

Aiello hailed another cab. He got in the front with the cab driver while the three of them squeezed in back. John craned his head to try and see the tops of the skyscrapers as they travelled.

When they reached Aiello's place, his mother welcomed all three with kisses on both cheeks. Lidia was right behind her. She gave them all hugs. When they left the next morning, the Aiellos sent them with fruit and sausages (kosher, of course) and a bottle of wine to boot. They brought some soda pop at the station and saved the wine as a gift to Mama and Papa. Three days later, they all shared a toast around the dining room table. "_L'Chaim!_" To starting a new life as a-now bigger for some, smaller for others-family.

* * *

The End


	15. Appendix: Translations

**Aftermath**  
by Philippe de la Matraque

**Appendix: Translations**

I made a decision early on not to translate, even contextually, the German in Aftermath. Zussman understands it and that was kind of enough. But I thought some readers might actually like to know what that German was. Of course, they could put it in Google Translate and find out, but I thought I'd gather it all up here, like my alter ego Gabrielle Lawson did with Oświęcim. Everything below is German, unless it says otherwise.

**Chapter One**  
_scheiße_  
shit

_Erschieß sie nicht._ _Erschieß mich._ Daniels is dead. _Ich auch. Lass sie mit den anderen gehen._  
Don't shoot them. Shoot me. Daniels is dead. Me, too. Let them go with the others.

**Chapter Two**  
_Warten Sie zehn Minuten und schießen Sie sie ab._  
Wait ten minutes and shoot them!

**Chapter Six**  
French: _Baise les Boshes!_  
Fuck the Boshes! (derogatory term for Germans)

French: _mon ami_  
my friend

**Chapter Nine**  
_Das Führer_ The Leader (with the wrong definite article)

_Der Führer,_  
The Leader, meaning Hitler

_Das_  
the (neuter)

_Der Stuhl_  
the (masculine) chair

Czech: _Dveře jsou otevřené_ _Jsou_ _To je podlaha._ _Je_...  
The door is open. Are. That is the floor. Is...

Italian: _Questo e semplicemente pazzo_This is just crazy

_Du musst Deinen Platz lernen, jüdisches Schwein._  
You need to learn your place, Jewish swine.

_Aber immer noch sagt dein Gesicht, 'Fick dich.'_  
But still your face says, "Fuck you."

_Ich werde dich davon befreien, bevor du heir abreist._  
I will rid you of that before you leave here.

_Und der einzege Weg, auf dem du hier wegkommst, ist der Weg zu deinem Grab._  
And the only way you'll leave here is by grave.

**Chapter Twelve**  
_Nein_  
No

_Raus, raus!_  
Out, out!

_Frühstück in einer halben Stunde._ ..._dreißig minüten_  
Breakfast is in a half hour. ...thirty minutes

_Der Name meines Großvaters war Zussman._  
My grandfather's name was Zussman.

_Deshalb wollte ich mit dir reden._  
That's why I wanted to talk to you.

_Der Name deiner Mutter?_  
Your mother's name?

_Marta Zussman, bevor sie meinen Vater heiratete._ _Du kennst meinen Namen. Wie heißt du?_  
Marta Zussman, before she married my father. You know my name. What's yours?

Robert Zussman,_genau wie mein Vater. Der Name deines Vater?_  
Robert Zussman, just like my father. Your father's name?

_Karl Strauss,_ _Ich hatte auch eine Schwester._  
Karl Strauss. I had a sister, too.

_Darf ich?_  
May I?

_Natürlich_.  
Naturally. _Wo hast du das gefunden?_ Where did you find that?

_Ihr Großvater hat es 1936 an meinen Vater geschickt._  
Your grandfather sent it to my father in 1936.

_Ihr Großvater und mein Großvater waren Brüder?_  
Your grandfather and my grandfather were brothers?

_Du bist americanisch._  
You're American.

_Meine Eltern verließen Stuttgart im Jahr 1922. Sie leben in Chicago._  
My parents left Stuttgart in 1922. They live in Chicago.

_Ich habe einen Onkel in Chicago?_  
I have an uncle in Chicago?

_Und einen Cousin genau hier._  
And a cousin right here.

_Das ist nicht nötig,_  
No need.

_Du bist schmal für einen Soldaten, nein?_  
You are thin for a soldier, no?

_Ich hatte meine eigenen Probleme mit den Nazis_ _Es war nicht Auschwitz, aber es hätte mich fast umgebracht._  
I had my own problems with the Nazis. It wasn't Auschwitz, but it almost killed me.

_Ich kann es in deinen Augen sehen. Ich bin auch schmal. Wir werden trotzdem wachsen._  
I can see it in your eyes. I am thin, too. We will grow still.

_Ja wir werden. Meine Mutter wird sich darum kümmern, wenn ich nach Hause komme._  
Yes we ill. My mother will make sure of that when I get home.

_Deine Eltern haben mehr Briefe von meinem Großvater?_  
Your parents have more letters from my grandfather?

_Mama hat sie alle behalten. Ich glaube, sie hat Chanukka-Karten von deiner Mutter._  
Mama kept them all. I think she has Hanukkah cards from your mother.

_Ich wünschte, ich könnte sie lesen._  
I wish I could read them.

_Ich weiß nicht, was du vorhast._ _Aber du hast eine Familie in Chicago. Vergiss das nie._  
I don't know what your plans are. But you have a family in Chicago. Don't forget that.

_Ich habe an Palästina gedacth._ _Veilleicht werde ich über Amerika nachdenken._  
I have been thinking about Palestine. Maybe I will consider America.

_Sie würden sich sehr freuen, von Euch zu hören._  
They would be happy to hear from you.

_Und meine Mutter._  
And my mother.

_Meine Großmutter und meine Tanten_  
My grandmother and my aunts

_Dein Zussman ist heir?_  
Your Zussman is here?

_Ich dachte, ich wäre jetzt alleine auf der Welt._  
I thought I was alone now in the world.

_Er ist also auch dein Verwandter._  
He is your relative, too.

_Auch?_  
Also? or Too?

_Deine Mutter?_  
Your mother?

_Ja,_  
Yes

_Deine Mutter?_  
Your mother?

_Ja, ich bin diese Sofi._  
Yes, I am this Sofi.

_Du bist so jung, aber du bist meine Cousine._  
You are so young, but you are my cousin.

_Ich bin auch sein Cousin,_ _auf der Seite seines Vaters._  
I am also his cousin, on his father's side.

_Links, Tod._ _Rechts, Leben._  
Left, death. Right, life.

Polish: _Wspaniale!_  
Wonderful

**Chapter Thirteen**  
_Frag mich doch du Nazi Stück Scheiße._  
Ask me, you Nazi piece of shit.

_Du sprichst Deutsch. Ausgezeichnet._ _Wer sind die Juden?_  
You speak German. Excellent. Where are the Jews?

_Fick dich!_  
Fuck you!

_Zeig es mir!_  
Show me!

_Setz sie alle in den Zug!_  
Put them all on the train!

_Wohin bringt ihr uns?_  
Where are you taking us?

_Ihr seid zum Arbeiten hergekommen und das werdet ihr auch tun!" _  
You came here to work and that is what you will do!  
(See the end notes in Chapter 13 for that tricky bit.)

_Warten Sie zehn Minuten und schießen sie ab._  
Wait ten minutes and shoot them!

_Erschieß sie nicht._ _Erschieß mich._ Daniels is dead. _Ich auch. Lass sie mit den anderen gehen._  
Don't shoot them. Shoot me. Daniels is dead. Me, too. Let them go with the others.

**Chapter Fourteen**  
Hebrew: _L'Chaim!_  
To life!

**Author's Note: **  
Turns out there was quite a bit of German in Chapter Twelve and it's kind of sweet, so I think this will help some of the readers understand what was said between Zussman, Johan, and Sofi. Much of Chapter Thirteen was a recount of that part of the game, with some better and worse translations than the subtitles, and then my part of Zussman's story.


End file.
